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WILLIAM BLACK 




'he Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tri weekly. By Subscription $36 per annum. 
Ighted 1888, by George Munro.— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates.— July 7, 18 





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YDLANDE. 









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YOLANDE. 


By william BLACK. 


CHAPTER L 

RELEASED PROM CHATEAU COLD FLOORS. 

Late one evening in April, in a private sitting-room on the first 
floor of a hotel in Albemarle Street, a member of the British House 
of Commons was lying back in an easy-chair, having just begun to 
read, in an afternoon journal, an article about himself. He was a 
man approaching fifty, with what the Scotch call “ a salt-water face ” 
— that is to say, a face tanned and reddened with wind and weather; 
sharp of feature; and with hair become prematurel}' quite silver- 
white. At a first glance he seemed to have the air of an imperative, 
eager, aggressive person; but that impression was modified when by 
any accident you met his e3^es, which were nervous, shrinking, and. 
uncertain. Walking in the street, he rarely saw any one; perhaps 
he was too preoccupied with public affairs: perhaps he was sensi- 
ti'^ely afraid of not being able to recognize half remembered faces. 
When sitting alone, slight noises made him start. 

This was what the man with the thin red face and the silver-white 
hair was reading: — 

“ By his amendment of last night, which, as every one anticipated, 
was defeated by an overwhelming majority, the member for Slag- 
pool has once more called attention to the unique position which he 
occupies in contemporary politics. Consistent only in his hopeless 
inconsistencv, and only to b^reckoned on for the wholl}^ unexpect- 
ed, one wonders for what particular purpose the electors of Slag- 
pool ever thought of sending Mr. Winterbourne to Parliament, un- 
less, indeed, it were to make sure that their town should be suf- 
ficiently often heard of in the councils of the nation. A politician 
who is at once a furious Jingo in foreign affairs and an ultra-revo- 
lutionary at home: an upholder of the divine rights and liberties of 
the multitude, who, at the same time, would, if he could, force 
them to close every public house in the country, alike on Sunday 
and Saturday: a virulent opponent of Vivisection, who nevertheless 
champions the Game Laws, and who is doubtful about the Abolition 
of Capital Punishment, probably because he would like to reserve 
to himself the right of hanging poachers; it may be conceded that 
such a member of Parliament, if he is not to be counted on by any 
party, or by any section or sub-section of any party— if, indeed, he 
is ordinarily a good deal more dangerous to his allies than to his en- 
emies— may at least do some service to his constituents by continu* 


YOLAKDE. 


2 

ally remindlDg the country of their existence, white ministering on 
the same occasion^ to his own inordinate vanity. For it is to this — 
it is to an inordinate vanity, spurred on by an irritable'and capricious 
temper, that we must look for the cause of those spasmodic cham- 
pionships and petulant antagonisms, those erratic appearances and 
disappearances, those sudden alliances and incomprehensible deser- 
tions, which have made of the member for Slagpool the very whirli- 
gig and teetotum of modern English politics.” 

When he had got thus far he stopped. 

” It sounds like the writing of a young man,” he was thinking. 
“But perhaps it is true. Perhaps that is w'hat I am like. The 
public press is a mirror. 1 w’onder if that is how I appear to Yo- 
lande?” 

He heard a footstep outside; and immediately thrust away the 
newspaper from him, face downward. The next moment the door 
of the room was opened, and the framework of the door became the 
framework of a living picture. Mr. Winterbourne’s face lightened 
up with pleasure. 

The picture framed by the doorway was that of a young girl of 
eighteen, singularly tall and strikingly fair, who stood there hesitat- 
ing, timid, half laughing. 

‘‘ Look,” she said. ” Is it your idea?” 

Is it your idea !" he repeated, peevishly. ” Yolande, you are 

getting worse and worse, instead of better. Why don’t you say, 

‘ Is this what you meant?’ ” 

” Is this what you meant?” she said promptly, and with a slight 
foreign accent. 

His eyes could not dwell on her for two seconds together, and be 
vexed. 

“ Come to the mirror, child, and put on your hat, and let me see 
the whole thing properly.” 

She did as she was bid, stepping over to the fireplace, and stand- 
ing before the old fashioned mirror, as she adjusted the wide- 
brimmed Rubens hat over the ruddy gold of her hair. For this w’as 
an experiment in costume; and it had some suggestion of novelty. 
The plain gown was of a uniform cream while — of some rough 
towel like substance that seemed to'Vcling naturally to the tall and 
graceful figure; and it was touched here and there with black vel- 
vet; and the tight sleeves had black velvet cuffs; while the white 
Rubens hat had also a band of black velvet round the bold sweep of 
the brim. For the rest, she wmre no ornaments but a thick silver 
necklace round her throat and a plain silver belt round her waist, 
the belt being a broad zone of solid mftal, untouched by any graver. 

But any one who had seen this young English girl standing there, 
her arms uplifted, her hands busy with her hat, would not have 
wasted much attention on the details of her costume. Her face was 
interesting, even at an age when gentleness and sweetness are about 
the only characteristics that one expects to meet with. And al- 
though no mere catalogue of her features — the calm clear brow; the 
wide-apart gray -blue eyes; the aquiline nose; the unusually short 
upper lip and beautifully rounded chin; her soft and wavy hair 
glistering in its ruddy gold; and her complexion, that was in reality 


YOLANDE* 3 

excessively fair, only that an abundauce of freckles, as well as the 
natural rose-color of youth in her cheeks, spoke of her not being 
much afraid of the sun and of the country air — although no mere 
enumeralion of these things is at all likely to explain the unnamable 
grace that attracted people to her, yet there was at least one expres- 
sion of her face that could be accounted for. That unusually short 
upper lip, that has been noted above, gave a slight pensive droop to 
the mouth whenever her features were in repose; so that, when she 
suddenly looked up, with her wide, wondering, timid, and yet trust- 
ful eyes, there was something pathetic and wistful there. It was an 
expression absolutely without intention; it was inexplicable and also 
winning; it seemed to convey a sort of involuntary unconscious ap- 
peal for gentleness and friendship, but beyond that it had no signifi- 
cance whatsoever, It had nothing to do with any sorrow, suffered 
or foreshadowed. So far the girl’s existence had been passed among 
the roses and lilies of life; the only serious grievance she had ever 
known was the winter coldness of the floors in the so-called chateau 
in Brittany where she had been educated. And now she was eman- 
cipated from the discipline of Chateau Cold Floors, as she had 
named the place, and the world was fair around her; and every day 
was a day of gladness to her, from the first “ Good morning!” over 
the breakfast-table to the very last of all the last and lingering 
” Good nights!” that had to be said before she would let her father 
go down to put in an appearance at the House. 

This must be admitted about Yolande Winterbourne, however, 
that she had two verj’^ distinct manners. With her friends and in- 
timates. «he was playful, careless, and not without atoui h of humor- 
ous willfulness; but with strangers, and especially with strangers 
abroad, she could assume in the most astonishing fashion the extreme 
coldness and courtesy of an English miss. Remember, she was lall, 
fair, and English-looking; that (when all the pretty, timid trustful- 
ness and merriment were out of them) her eyes were wide apart and 
clear aud contemplative; and further, that the good dames of Ch^ 
teau Cold Floors had instructed her as to how she should behave 
when she went traveling with her father — which happened pretty 
often. At the table d'hote, with her fathei present, she was as light- 
hearted, as talkative, as pleasant as any one could wish. In the 
music-room after dinner, or on the deck of a steamer, or anywhere, 
w ith her father by accident absent, she was the English Miss out 
and out. and no aside conversations w'ere possible. ” So proud — so 
reserved — so English,” thought many an impressionable young for- 
eigner, who had been charmed with the bright, variable, vivacious 
face as it had regarded him across the wjiite table-cover and the 
flowers. Yolaude’s face could become very calm— even austere, on 
occasion. 

” Is it what you meant?” she repeated, turning to him from the 
mirror. Her face was bright enough now. 

” Oh, yes,” said he, rather reluctantly. ” I— I thought it would 
suit you. But you see, Yolande — you see — it is very pretty — but 
for London— to drive in the Park — in London — wouldn’t it be a 
little conspicuous?” 

Her eyes were filled with astonishment; his rather wandered away 
nervously to the table. 


4 


TOLAN^DE. 


“But, papa, I don't understand you! Everywhere else you are 
always wishing me to wear the brightest and lightest of colors. I 
may wear what I please — and that is only to please you, that is what 
I care about only — anywhere else, if we are going for a walk along 
the Lung’ Arno, or if we go for a drive in the Prater — yes, and at 
Oatlands Park, too, 1 cannot please you with enough bright colors; 
but here, in London, the one or two of my visits ’’ 

“ Do speak English, Yolande,’’ said he, sharply. “ Don’t hurry 
so!’’ 

“ The once or twice I am in London, oh no! Everything is too 
conspicuous! Is it the smoke, papa? And this time 1 was so anx- 
ious to please you— all your own ideas; not mine at all. But what 
do I care?’’ She tossed the Rubens hat on to the couch that was 
near. “ Come! What is there about a dress? U will do for some 
other place, not so dark and smoky as London. Come— sit down, 
papa— you do not wish to go away to the House yet! You have not 
finished about Godfrey of Bouillon.’’ 

“ I am not going to read any more Gibbon to you to night, Yo- 
lande,’’ said he; but he sat down all the same, in the easy-chair, and 
she placed herself on the hearthrug before him, so that the soft, 
ruddy gold of her hair just touched his knees. It was a pretty head 
to stroke. 

“ Oh, do you think 1 am so anxious about Gibbon, then?’’ she 
said, lightly, as she settled herself into a comfortable position. 
“ No. Not at all. I do not want any more Gibbon, 1 want you. 
And you said this morning there would be nothing but stupidity in 
the House to-night.’’ 

“Well, now. Miss Inveigler, just listen to this,’’ said he, laying 
hold of her by both her small ears. “ Don’t you think it prudent of 
me to show up as often as I can in the House — especially when 
there is a chance of a division — so that my good friends in Slagpool 
mayn’t begin to grumble about my being away so frequently? And 
why am I away? Why do I neglect my duties? Why do I let the 
British Empire glide on to its doom? Why 'but that I may take a 
wretched schoolgirl — a wretched, small-brained, impertinent, prat- 
tling schoolgirl — for her holidays and show her things she can’t un- 
derstand; and plow through museunas and picture-galleries to fill a 
mind that is no better than a sieve? Just think of it. The British 
Empire going headlong to the mischief all for the sake of an empty- 
headed schoolgirl!’’ 

“Do you know, papa, 1 am very glad to hear that?’’ she said, 
quietly. 

“ Glad, are you?” 

“Yes,’’ she said, nestling closer to him, “ for now I think my 
dream will soon be coming true.’’ 

“ Your dream?’’ 

“ My dream. The ambition of my life,’’ said she, seriously. “ It 
is all 1 wish for and hope for. Nothing else— nothing else in the 
world.” 

“ Bless us all!” said he, with a touch of irony. “ What wonder- 
ful ambition is this?” 

“ It is to make myself indispensable to you,” she said, simply. 

He took his hands from her ears and put them on her hair, for 


YOLANDE. 5 

there was some bits of curls and semi-ringlets about her neck that 
wanted smoothing. 

“ You are not indispensable, then?” said he. 

“ Listen now, papa; it is your turn,” she said, ” Surely it is a 
shame that you have wasted so much time on me, through so many 
years— always coming to see me and take me away— perhaps not a 
week between — and 1 glad enough, for it was always expectation 
and expectation — and my things always ready — and you, poor papa, 
wasting all your time, and always on the route, and that such a long 
way to Rennes. Even at Oatlancls Park the same — up and down — up 
and down by rail— and then long beautiful days that were very good 
to me, but were stupid to you, when you were thinking of the 
House all the time. Very well, now, papa; I have more sense now; 
1 have been thinking; I want to be indispensable to you; I want to 
be in London with you— always; and you shall never have to run 
away idling, either to the Continent or to Oatlands Park; and you 
shall never have to think that I am wearying for you— when I am 
always with you in London. That is it now; that I wish to be 
your private secretary.” 

Her demand once made, she turned up her face to him; he averted 
his eyes. 

‘‘No, no, Yolande,” he said, hastily— and even nervously. 
** London won’t do for you — it — it wouldn’t do at all. Don’t think 
of it even.” 

“Papa,” said she, ‘‘what other member of Parliament, with so 
much business as you have, is without a private secretary? Why 
should you answer all those letters yourself? For me I will learn 
politics very quickly; I am studying hard; at the Chateau I trans- 
lated all your speeches into Italian, for exercises. And just to think 
that you have never allowed me to hear you speak in the House! 
When 1 come to London— yea, for five minutes or half an hour at a 
time — the ladies whom I see will not believe that I have never 
once been in the — the what is it called? — for the ladies to listen 
in the House? No, they cannot believe it. They know all 
the speakers; they have heard all the great men; the}' spend 
the whole of the evening there, and have many come to see 
them — all in politics. W^ell, you see, papa, what a burden it would 
be taking off your hands. You would not always have to come home 
and dine with me, and waste so much of the evening in reading to 
me, — no, 1 should be at the House, listening to you, and under- 
standing everything. Then all the day here, busy with your letters. 
Oh, 1 assure you I would make prettier compliments to your constit- 
uents than you could think of; I would make all the people of Slag- 
pool who write to you think you were the very best member they 
could choose. And‘then— then I should be indispensable to you.” 

‘‘ You are indispensable to me, Yolande. You are my life. What 
else do I care for?” he said, hurriedly. 

” You will pardon me, papa, if 1 say it is foolish. Oh, to think 
now! One’s life is more important than that, when you have the 
country to guard.” 

‘‘ They seem to think there,” he said, with a sardonic smile, and 
he glanced at the newspaper, ” that the country would be better off 
without me.” 


6 


TOLANDE. 


It was too late to recall this unfortunate speech. He had thrust 
aside the newspaper as she entered, dreading that by accident she 
misrht see the article and be wounded by it; but now there was no 
help for it; the moment he had spoken she reached over and took up 
the journal, and found her father’s name staring her in the face. 

“ Is it true, Tolande?” he said with a laugh. " Is that what I am 
like?” 

As she read, Yolande tried at first to be grandly indifferent— even 
contemptuous. Was it for her, who wished to be of assistance to 
her father, in public affairs, to mind what was said about him in a 
leading article? And then, in spite of herself, tears rose slowly and 
filled the soft gray-blue eyes— though she liad kept her head down, 
vainly trying to hide them. And then mortification at her weakness 
made her angry; and she crushed up the paper twice and thrice, and 
hurled it into the fire; nay, she seized hold of the poker and thrust 
and drove the offending journal into the very heart of the coals. 
And then she rose, proud and indignant (but with her eyes a little 
wet), and with a toss of her pretty head, she said, 

“It is enough time to waste over such folly. Perhaps the poor 
man has to support a family; but he need not write such stupidity 
as that. Now, papa, what shall I play for you?” 

She was going to the piano. But he had risen also. 

“No, no. Yolande. I must be off to the House. There is just a 
chance of a division; and perhaps I may be able to get in a few 
words somewhere, just to show the Slagpool people that I am not 
careering about the Continent with my schoolgirl. No, no; 1 will 
see you safe in your own room, Yolande; and your lamp lit, and 

everything snug; then Good night 1” 

“Already?” she said, with a great disappointment in her face. 
“ Already?” 

“ Child, child, the affairs of this mighty Empire ” 

“ What do 1 care about the Empire 1” she said. 

He stood and regarded her calmly. 

“ Y"ou are a nice sort of person to wish to be private secretary to 
a member of Parliament.” 

“ Oh, but if you will only sit down for five minutes, papa,” she 

said, piteously, “ I could explain such a lot to you ” 

“ Oh, yes, 1 know. I know very well. About the temper madame 
was in when the curls fell out of her box.” 

“ Papa, it is you who make me frivolous. I wish to be seri- 
ous ” 

“ I am going, Yolande.” 

She interposed. 

“ No. Not until you say, ‘ I love you. ’ ” 

“I love you.” 

‘ And I forgive you.’ ” 

“ And I forgive you.” 

“ Everything?” 

“ Everything.” 

“ And I may go out to-morrow morning as early as ever I like, to 
buy some flowers for the breakfast-table?” 
out this was hard to grant. 

“I don’t like your going out by yourself, Yolande,” said he, 


YOLANDE. 


7 

rather hesitatingly. “You can order flowers. You can ring; and 
tell the waiter “ 

“ The waiter!” she exclaimed. “ What am 1 of use for, then, if 
it is a waiter who will chose flowers for your breakfast-table, papa? 
It is not far to Co vent Garden.” 

“ Take Jane with you, then.” 

“Oh, yes.” 

So that was settled; and he went up stairs with her to see that her 
little silver reading-lamp was properly lit; and then he bade her the 
real last good night. When he returned to the sitting-room for his 
hat and coat there was a pleased and contented look on his face. 

“Poor Yolande!” he was thinking; “she is more shut up here 
than in the country; but she will soon have the liberty of Oatlands 
Park again.” 

He had just put on his coat and hat, and was giving a last look 
round the room to see if there was anything he ought to take with 
him, when there was a loud, sharp crash at the window. A hun- 
dred splinters of glass fell on to the floor; a stone rolled over and 
over to the fireplace. He seemed bewildered only for a second; and 
perhaps it was the startling sound that had made his face grow sud- 
denly of a deadly pallor; the next second — noiselessly and quickly — 
he had stolen from the room, and was hurriedly descending the stair 
to the hall of the hotel. 


CHAPTER II. 

^ THE SHADOW BEHIND. 

T^HE head waiter was in the hall, alone, and staring out through 
the glass door. When he heard some one behind him, he turned quick- 
ly, and there w+is a vague alarm in his face. 

“ The — lady, sir, has been here again.” 

Mr. Winterbourne paid no heed to him, passed him hastily, and 
went out. The lamplight showed a figure standing there on the 
pavement — the figure of a tall woman, dark and pale, who had a 
strange, dazed look in her eyes. 

“ I thought I’d bring you out!” she said, tauntingly, and with a 
slight laugh. 

“ What do you want?” he said, quickl3% and under his breath. 
“ Have 3^ou no shame, woman! Come away. Tell me what you 
want!” 

“ You know what I want,” she said, sullenly. “ I want no more 
lies.” Then an angrier light blazed up in the impassive, emaciated 
face. “ Who has driven me to it. if I have to break a window? I 
want no more lies and hidings. I want you to keep your promise; 
and if I have to break every window in the House of Commons, I 
will let everybody know. Whose fault is it?” 

But her anger seemed to die away as rapidly as it had arisen. A 
dull, vague, absent look returned to her face. 

“ It is not my fault” 

“ What madness have you got hold of now?” he said, in the same 
low and nervous voice— and all his anxiety seemed to be to get her 
away from the hotel. “ Come along and teU me what you want. 
You want mo to keep my promise— to you, in this condition?” 


8 


TOLANDE. 


\ 

“ It is not my fault,” she repeated, in a listless kind of way; and 
now she was quite obediently and peaceably following him; and he 
was walking toward Piccadilly, his head bent down. 

“I suppose I can guess who sent you,” he said, watching her 
narrowly. ” 1 suppose it was not for nothing you came to make 
an exhibition of yourself in the public streets. They asked you to 
go and get some money?” 

This seemed to put a new idea into her head ; perhaps that had 
been his intent. • 

” Yes. I will take them some money, if you like,” she said, 
absently. ” They are my only friends now — my only friends. They 
have been kind to me — they don’t cheat me with lies and promises 
— they don’t put me oti, and turn me away when I ask for them. 
Yes, I will take them some money.” 

And then she laughed — a short, triumphant laugh. 

” 1 discovered the way to bring some one out!” she said, ap- 
parently to herself. 

By this time they had reached the corner of Piccadilly, and, as a 
four-wheeled cab happened to be passing, he stopped it, and him- 
self opened the door. She made no remonstrance ; she seemed ready 
to do anything he wished. 

” Here is some money. I will pay the driver. ” 

She got into the cab quite submissively; and the man was given 
the address, and paid. Then the vehicle was driven oil; and he 
w»j& left standing on the pavement, still somewhat bewildered, and 
not conscious how his hands were trembling. 

He stood uncertain only for a second or so; then he walked 
rapidly back to the hotel. • 

“ Has Miss Winterbourne’s maid gone to bed yet?” he asked of 
the landlady. 

“Oh, no, sir; I should think not, sir,” the buxom person an- 
swered : she did not observe that his face was pale and his eyes 
nervuus. 

“ Will you please tell her, then, that we shall be going down to 
Oatlands Park again to-morrow morning? 8he must have every- 
thing ready? hut she is not to disturb Miss Winterbourne to-night.” 

“ very well, sir. ” 

Then he went into the coffee-room, and found the head waiter. 

“ Look here,” said he (with his eyes averted), “ I suppose you can 
get a man to put in a pane of glass in the window of our sitting- 
room — the first thing in the morning? There has been some acci- 
dent. I suppose. You can have it done before Miss Winterbourne 
comes down, I mean?” 

He slipped a sovereign into the waiter’s hand. 

“ I think so, sir. Oh, yes, sir.” 

“You must try to have it done before Miss Winterbourne comes 
down.” 

He stood for a moment, apparently listening if there was any 
sound up stairs; and then he opened the door again and went out. 
Very^lowlyhe walked away through the lamp-lit streets, seeing 
absolQlely nothing of the passers-by, or of the rattling cabs and car- 
and although he bent his steps W estminsterward it was cer- 


YOLAKDE. 


9 

taialy not the affairs of the nation that had hold of his mind. 
Rather he was thinking of that beautiful fair young life— that young 
life 80 carefully and tenderly cherished and guarded, and all uncon- 
scious of this terrible black shadow behind it. The irony of it! It 
was this very night that Yolande had chosen to reveal to him her 
secret hopes and ambition; she was to be always with him; she was 
to be “ indispensable;” the days of her banishment were to be now 
left behind; and these two, father and daughter, were to be in- 
separable companions henceforth and forever. And his reply? As 
he walked along the half-deserted pavements, anxiously revolving 
many things, and dreaming many dreams about what the future 
might have in store for her, and regarding the trouble and terrib’e 
care that haunted his own life, the final summing-up of all his 
doubts and fears resolved itself into this— If only Yolande were mar- 
ried! The irony of it! She had besought him out of her love for 
him and out of her gratitude for his watchful and unceasing care of 
her that she should be admitted into a closer companionship; that she 
should become his constant attendant and associate and friend; and 
his answer was to propose to hand her over to another guardianship 
altogether— the guardianship of a stranger. If only Yolande were 
married ! 

The light was burning on the clock-tower, and so he knew the 
House was still silting; but he had no longer any intention of joining 
in any debate that might be going forward. When he passed into 
the House (and more than ever he seemed to wish to avoid the eyes 
of strangers) it was to seek out his friend, John Shorllands, wlmse 
rough common sense and blunt counsel had before now stood him 
in good stead and served to brace up his unstrung nerves. The tall, 
corpulent, big-headed ironmaster — who also represented a northern 
constituency — he at length found in the smoking-room, with two or 
three companions, who were seated round a small table, and busy 
•with cigars and brandy and soda. Winterbourne touched his friend 
lightly on the shoulder. 

” Can you come outside for a minute?” 

” All right.” 

It was a beautiful, clear, mild night; and seated on the benches 
on the Terrace there were several groups of peopje — among them 
two or three ladies, who had, no doubt, been gla^, t ;» leave the sluffy 
Chamber to have tea or lemonade brought lo'!*lhfcm in the open, 
while they chatted with their friends and regarded the silent, dark 
river and the lights of the EmPankment and Westminster Bridge. 
As Winterbourne passed them, he could not but think of Yolande’s 
complaint that she had never even once been in the House of Com- 
mons. These were, no doubt, the daughters or wives or sisters of 
members; why should not Yolande also be silting there? It would 
have been pleasant for him to come out and talk to her — pleasanter 
than listening to a dull debate. Would Yolande have wondered at 
the strange nighi -picture — the broad black river, all quivering with 
golden reflections; the lights on the bridge; the shadowy grandeur 
of this great building reaching far overhead into the starlit skies? 
Others were there; why not she? 

The Terrace of the House of Commons is at night a soiTiewhat 
dusky promenade- when there does not happen to be modnlight; 


YOLIKDE. 


10 

but John Shortlands had sharp eyes; and he instantly guessed from 
his friend’s manner that something had happened. 

“ More troubJe?” said he, regarding him. 

“Yes,” said the other. “Well, I don’t mind— I don’t mind, as 
far as T am concerned. It is no new thing.” 

But he sighed, in spite of his resigned way of speech. 

“I have told you all along. Winterbourne, that you brought it 
on yourself. You should ha’ taken the bull by the horns ” 

“ It is too late to talk of it — never mind that now,” he said, im- 
patiently. “ It is about Yolande 1 want to speak to you.” 

“ Yes?” 

Then he hesitated. In fact, his lip trembled for the briefest part 
of a second. 

“ You won’t guess what I am anxious for now,” he said, with a 
sort of uncertain laugh. “ You wouldn’t guess it in a month, 
Shortlands. 1 am anxious to see Yolande married.” 

“Faith, that needn’t trouble you,” said the big ironmaster 
bluntly. “ There’ll be no difficulty about that. Yolande has grown 
into a thundering handsome girl. And they say,” he added, 
jocosely, “ that her father is pretty well off.” . 

They were walking up and down, slowly; Mr. Winterbourne’s 
face absent and hopeless at times, at limes almost piteous, and again 
lightening up as he thought of some brighter future for his 
daughter. 

“ She cannot remain longer at any school,” he said, at length, 
“ and I don’t like leaving her by herself at Oatlands Park or any 
similar place. Poor child! Do you know what her own plans are? 
She wants to be my private secretary. She wants to share the life 
that I have been leading all these years ” 

“ And so she might have done, my good fellow, if there had been 
anv common sense among the lot o' ye ” 

^'It is too late to speak of that now.” the other repeated, with a 
sort of nervous fretfulness. “ But indeed it is hard on the poor girl. 
She seems to have been thinking seriously about it. And she and 1 
have been pretty close companions, one way or another, of late 
years. Well, if 1 could only see her safely married and settled — 
perhaps living in the country, where I could run down for a day or 
so — her name not mine — perhaps w^ith a j’oung family to occupy her 
and make her hap|^— well, then, I think I should be able to put up 
with the loss of my private secretary. 1 wonder what she will sa}' 
when I propose it. She will be disappointed — perhaps she will think 
I don’t care for her— when there is just not another creature in the 
world I do care for— she may think it cruel and unnatural ” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense, man. Of course a girl like Yolande will 
get married. Your private secretary! How long would it last? 
Does she look like the sort of girl who ought to be smothered up in 
correspondence or listening to debates? And if you’re in such a 
mighty hurry to get rid of her— if you want to get her married at 
once. I’ll tell you a safe and sure way — send her for a voyage on 
board a P. and O. steamer.” 

But this was just somewhat too blunt; and Yolande’s father said, 
angrily, 

“ I don’t want to gel rid of her. And I am not likely to send her 


YOLANDE. 


11 

any^^here; hitherto we have traveled together — and we have found 
it answer well enough, 1 can tell you. Yolande isn’t a bale of 
goods, to be disposed of to the first bidder. If it comes to that, per- 
haps she will not marry any one.” 

” Perhaps,” said the other, calmly. 

” I don’t know that I may not throw Slagpool over and quit the 
country altogether,” he exclaimed, with a momentary recklessness. 
” Why shouldn’t I? Yolande is fond of traveling. She has been 
four times across the Atlantic now. She is the best companion 1 
know; I tell you 1 don’t know a better companion. And I’m sick of 
the way they’re going on here.” (He nodded in the direction of the 
House.) “ Government? They don’t govern; they talk. A Parlia- 
mentary victory is all they think about; and the country going to 
the mischief aH the time. No matter, if they get their majority, and 
if they can pose before the wmrld as the most moral and exemplary 
government that ever existed. I wonder they don’t give up Gibral- 
tar to Spain; and hand over Malta to Italy; and then they ought to 
let Ireland go, because she wants to go; and certainly they ought to 
yield up India, for India was stolen; and then they might reduce 
the army and the navy, to set an example of disarmament; so that at 
last the w’orld might see a spectacle!— a nation permitted to exist by 
other nations because of its uprightness and its noble sentiments. 
Well, that has nothing to do with Yolande; except that I think she 
and 1 could gel on very well even if we left England to pursue its 
course of high morality. We could look on — and laugh, as the rest 
of the world are doing.” 

“My dear fellow.” said Shortlands, who had listened to all this 
high treason with calmness; “ you could no more get on without the 
excitement of worrying the Government than without meat and 
drink. What wmuld it conie to? You would be in Colorado, let us 
say; and some young fellow in Denver, come in from the plains, 
would suddenly discover that Y’'olande would be an adorning 
feature for his ranch; and she would discover that he was the hand- 
somest young gentleman she ever saw; and then where would you 
be? Y^ou wouldn’t be much good at a ranch. The morning papers 
would look tremendous empty without the usual protest against the 
honorable member for Slagpool so grossly misrepresenting the action 
of the Government. My good fellow, we can’t do without you in 
fJie House; we might as well try to do without the Speaker.” 

For a few seconds they wmlked up and down in silence; at last 
Winterbourne said with a sigh — 

“ Well, 1 don’t know what may happen; but in the meantime 1 
think I shall take Y’^olande away for another long trip some, 
where ” 

“ Again? Already?” 

“ 1 don’t care where; but the moment I find myself on the deck 
of a ship, and Yolande bcsiae me, then I feel as if all care had 
dropped aw’ay from me. 1 feel safe; I can breathe freely. Oh, b}" 
the w^ay! I meant to ask if you knew anything of a Colonel Graham? 
You have been so often to Scotland shooting. I thought you might 
know,” 

“ But there are so many Grahams ” 

“ Invcrstroy, I think, is the name of his place.” 


12 


YOLANDE. 


“ Oh, that Graham. Yes, 1 should think so — a lucky beggar. 
Inverstroy fell plump into his hands some three or four years ago — 
quite unexpectedly — one of the finest estates in Invernesshire. I 
don’t think India will see him again.” 

” His wife seems a nice sort of woman,” said Mr. Winterbourne, 
with the slightest touch of interrogation. 

” I don’t know her. She is his second "wife. She is a daughter 
of Lord Lynn.” 

*' They are down at Oatlands just now. Yolande has made their 
acquaintance, and they have been very kind to her. Well, this 
Colonel Graham was saying the other evening that he felt as though 
he had been lonff enough in the old country, and would like to lake 
a P. and O. trip as far as Malta, or Suez, or Aden, just to renew his 
acquaintance with the old route. In fact, they proposed that 
Yolande and 1 should join them.” 

” The rery thing!” said John Shortlands, facetiously. ‘‘ What 
did I say? A P. and O. voyage will marry off anybody who is will- 
ing to marry.” 

** 1 meant nothing of the kind,” said the other, somewhat out of 
temper: ‘‘Yolande may not marry at all. If I went with these 
friends of hers it would not be ‘ to get rid of her,’ as you say.” 

” My dear fellow, don’t quarrel with me,” said his friend, with 
more consideration than was habitual with him. ” 1 really under- 
stand your position very well. You wish to see Yolande married 
and settled in life and removed from— from certain possibilities. 
But you don’t like the sacrifice; and I don’t wonder at that; I admit 
it will be rather rough on you. But it is the way of the world; 
other people’s daughters get married. Indeed. Winterbourne, 1 
think it would be better for both of you. You would have less 
anxiety. And I hope she’ll find a young fellow who is worthy of 
Imr; for she is a thundering good girl, that’s what I think; and 
whoever he is he’ll get a prize— though I don’t imagine you will be 
over well disposed toward him, old chap.” 

‘‘ If Yolande is happ}^ that will be enough for me,” said the 
other, absently, as Big Ben overhead began to toll the hour of twelve. 

By this time the Terrace was quite deserted; and after some little 
further chat (Mr. Winterbourne had lost much of his nervousness 
now, and of course all his talking was about Yolande, and her ways, 
and her liking for travel, and her anxiety to get rid of her half* 
French accent, and so forth), they turned into the House, where they 
separated, Winterbourne taking his seat below the gangway on the 
Government side, John Shortlands depositing his magnificent bulk 
on one of the Opposition benches. 

There was a general hum of conversation. There was also, as 
presently appeared, some laborious discourse going forward on the 
part of a handsorne-looking elderly gentleman — a gentleman who, 
down in the country, was known to be everything that an English- 
man could wish to be; an efficient magistrate, a plucky rider to 
hounds, an admirable husbarid and father, and a firm believer in 
the Articles of the Church of England. Unhappily, alas, he had 
acquired some other beliefs. He had got it into his head that he 
was an orator; and as he honestly did believe that talking was of 
value to the IState— that it was a builder-up and maintainer of em- 


YOLAKDE. 


13 

pire— he was now most seriously engaged in clothing some rather 
familiar ideas in long and Latinized phrases, the while the House 
murmured to itself about its own affairs, and the Speaker gazed 
blankly into space, and the reporters in the Gallery thought of their 
courting days, or of their wives and children, or of their supper, and 
wondered when they were to get home to bed. TJie speech had a 
half-somnolent effect; and those who were so inclined had an excel- 
lent opportunity for the dreaming of dreams. 

What dreams, then, were likely to visit the brain of the member 
for Slagpool, as he sat there with his eyes distraught? His getting 
up some fateful evening to move a vote of want of confidence in the 
Government? His appearance on the platform of the Slagpool 
Mechanics’ Institute, with the great mass of people rising and cheer- 
ing and waving their handkerchiefs? Or perhaps some day — for 
who could tell what changes the years might bring? — his taking his 
place on the Treasury bench there? 

He had got hold of a blue-book. It was the Report of a Royal 
Commission; but of course all the cover of the folio volume w^as not 
printed over — there were blank spaces. And so (while those laborious 
and ponderous sentences were being poured out to inattentive ears) 
the member for Slagpool began idly and yet throughtfuHy to pencil 
certain letters up at one corner of the blue cover. He was a long 
time about it; perhaps he saw pictures as he slowly and contempla- 
tively formed each letter; perhaps no one but himself could have 
made out what the uncertain penciling meant. But it was not of 
politics he was thinking. The letters that he had faintly penciled 
there — that he was still wistfully regarding as though they could 
show him things far aw^ay— formed the word TOLxiNDE. It was 
like a lover. 


CHAPTER III. 

PREPAKATIONS FOR FLIGHT. 

Next morning bis nervous anxiety to get Yolande away at once 
out of London was almost pitiable to witness, through he strove as 
well as he could to conceal it from her. He had a hundred excuses. 
Oatlands was becoming very pretty at that time of the year. There 
was little of importance going ou in the House. London was not 
good for the roses in her cheeks. He himself would be glad of a 
breathe up St. George’s Hill, or a quiet stroll along to Cherlsey. 
And so forth; and so forth. 

Yolande was greatly disappointed. She had been secretly nursing 
the hope that at last she might be allowed to remain in London, in 
some capacity or another, as I he constant companion of her father. 
She had enough sense to see that the time consumed in his continu- 
ally coming to stay with her in the country must be a serious thing 
for a man in public life. She was in a dim sort of w'ay afraid that 
these visits might become irksome to him, even although he himself 
should not be aware of it. Then she had her ambitions, too. She 
had a vague impression that the country at large did not quite under- 
stand and appreciate her father; that the people did not know him as 
she knew him, How could they, if he were to be forever forsaking 


14 


YOLANDE. 


his public duties in order to gad about with a girl Just left school. 
Never before (Yolande was convinced) had the nation such urgent 
need of ids services. There were a great many things wrong which 
lie could put right; of that she had no manner of doubt. The Gov- 
ernment was making a tyrannical use of a big majority to go their 
own way, not heeding the warnings and protests of independent 
members; this amongst many other things ought to be attended to. 
And it was at such a time, and just when she had revealed to him 
her secret aspiration that she might perhaps become his private secre- 
tary, that he must needs tell her to pack up, and insist on quitting 
London with her. Yolande could not understand it; but she was a 
biddable and obedient kind of creature; and so she look her place in 
the tour-wheeled cab without any word of complaint. 

And yet, when once they were really on their way from London 
— when the railway carriage was fairly out of the station— her 
father’s manner seemed to gain so much in cheerfulness that she 
could hardly be sorry they had left. She had not noticed that he 
had been more anxious and nervous that morning than usual; but 
she could not fail to remark how much brighter his look was now 
they were out in the clear air. And when Yolande saw her father’s 
eyes light up like this— as they did occasionally— she was apt to for- 
get about the injury that was being done to the affairs of the empire. 
They had been much together, these two; and anything appertain- 
ing to him was of keen interest to her; whereas the country at large 
was something of an abstraction; and the mechanical majority of 
the Government— for which she had a certain measure of contempt 
— little more than a name. 

“ Yolande,” said he (they had the compartment to themselves), “ I 
Lad a talk with John Shortlands last night.” 

*' Yes, papa?” 

” And if England slept well from that time until this morning it 
was because she little knew the fate that was in store for her. Think 
of this, child; 1 half threatened to throw up ray place in Parliament 
altogether — letting the country go to the mischief if it liked; and 
then the arrangement would be that you and I, Yolande — now just 
consider this— that you and I should start away together, and roam 
all over the world, looking at everything, and amusing ourselves — 
going just where we liked — no one to interfere with us— you and 1 
all by ourselves — now, Yolande!” 

She had clasped her hands with a quick delight. 

‘‘ Oh, papa, that would indeed ” 

But she stopped; and instantly her face grew grave again, 

“Oh, no.” she said, “no; it would not do. Last night, papa, 

you were reproachful of me ” 

“ ‘ Reproachful of me!’ ” he repeated, mockingly. 

“Reproachful to me?” she said, with inquiring eyes. But he 
himself was not ready with the correct phrase; and so she went on: 
“ Last night you were reproachful that I had taken up so much of 
your time; and though it was all in fun, still it was true; and now 
I am no longer a schoolgirl; and I wish to help you if I can; and 

not be merely tiresome and an incumbrance ” 

“You are so much of an incumbrance, Yolande!” he said, with 
a laugh. 


TOLAJ^DE. 


15 

"Yes,” slie said, gravely, ‘‘you would tire of me if we went 
away like that. In time you would tire. One would tire of always 
hciiig amused; all the people, that we see have work to do; and 
some day— it might be a long lime— but some day you would think 
of Parliament, and you would think you had given it up forme ” 

‘‘ Don’t make such a mistake!” said be. ” Do not consider your- 
self of such importance, miss. If I threw over Slagpool, and stalled 
as a wandering Jew — I mean we should be two wanuering Jews, you 
know, Yolande— it would be quite as much on my own account as 
yours ” 

‘‘You would become tired of being amused. You could not 
always travel,” she said. She put her hand on his hand. ‘‘Ah, 1 
see what it is,” she said, with a little laugh. ‘‘ You are concealing. 
That is your kindness, papa. You think I am too much alone; it is 
not enough that you sacrifice to-da}^ to-morrow, next day, to me; 
but you wish to make a sacrifice altogether; and you pretend you 
are tired of politics. Put you cannot make me blind to it. 1 see — 
oh. quite clearly I can see through your pretense!” 

He was scarce!}' listening to her now. 

‘‘ I suppose,” he said, absently, ‘‘ it is one of those fine things that 
are loo fine ever to become true. Fancy now— the two of us just 
wandering away where we pleased— nesting a day, a week, a month, 
when we came to some beautiful place— all by ourselves in the wide 
world.” 

‘‘ I have often noticed that, papa,” she said, ‘‘ that you like to 
talk about being away — about being remote ” 

*‘ But we should not be like the Wandering Jew in one respect,” 
he said, almost to himself. " The years would tell. There would 
be a difference. Something might happen to one of us.” 

And then, apparently, a new suggestion entered his mind. He 
glanced at the girl opposite him — timidly and anxiously. 

‘‘ Yolande,” said he, ‘‘ I — I wonder now— I suppose at your age 
— well, have you ever thought of gelling married?” 

She looked up at him with her clear, frank eyes, and when she 
was slarlled like that her mouth had the slight pathetic, droop, 
already noticed, that made her face so sensitive and charming. 

‘‘ Why, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times!” she ex- 
claimed, still with her soft clear eyes wondering. 

His eyes were turned away. He appeared to attach no importance 
to this confession. 

‘‘Of course,” she said, " when I say I have thought hundreds of 
fimes of getting married it is about not getting married that 1 mean. 
Xo. That is my resolution. Oh, many a time I have said that to 
myself. 1 shall not marry — never — no one.” 

In spite of himself his face suddenly brightened up ; and it was 
quite cheerfully that he went on to say — 

” Oh, but, Yolande, that is absurd. Of course you will marry. 
Of course you must marry.” 

‘‘ When yoiT put me away, papa.” 

” When I put you away!” he repeat6d, with a laugh. 

” Yes,” she continued quite simply. ‘‘That was what madame 
used to say. She used to say ‘ If your papa marries again, that is 
what you must expect. It will be better for you to leave the house, 


16 


YOLAKDE. 


But your papa is rich; you will have a good portion; then you will 
find some one to marry you, and give you also an establishment/ 
‘ Very well,’ I said, ‘ but that is going too far. madame; and until 
my papa tells me to go away from him I shall not go away, and 
there is not any necessity that 1 shall many any one.’ ” 

“ I wish madame had minded her own affairs,” Mr, Winterbourne 
said angrily. ” I am nol likely to marry again, 1 shall not marry 
again. Put that out of your head, Yolande— at once, and for 
always. But as for you— well, don’t you see. child— I — 1 can’t live 
forever; and you have got no very near relatives; and besides, liv- 
'ing with relatives isn’t always the pleasantest of things; and 1 should 
like to see your future quite settled. I should like to know that — 
that ” 

My future!” Yolande said with a light laugh. ” No, I will 
have nothing to do with a future; is not the present very good? 
Look— here 1 am; 1 have you; we are going out together, to have 
walks, rides, boating; is it not enough? Do 1 want any stranger to 
come in to interfere? No; some day you will say, ‘ Yolande, you 
worry me. You stop ray work. Now 1 am going to attend to Par- 
liament; and you have got to marry; and go off; and not worry 
me,’ Very well. It is enough. What 1 shall say is this: Papa, 
choose for me. What do 1 know? 1 do not know, and I do not 
care. Only a few things are necessary — are quite entirely necessary. 
He must not talk all daylong about horses. And he must be in Par- 
liament. And he must be on your side in Parliament. How much 
is that— three? — three qualiticatious. That is all.” 

Indeed, he found it was no use trying to talk to her seriously 
about this matter. She Iviughed it aside. She did not believe there 
was any fear about her future. She was all content with the world 
as it existed: was not the day fine enough, and Weybridge, and 
Chertsey, and Esher, and Moulsey, all awaiting them? If her 
father would leave his Parliamentary duties to look after them- 
selves, she was resolved to make the most of the holiday. 

” Oh, but you don’t know,” said he, quite falling in with her 
mood, ” you don’t know, Yolande, one fifteenth part of what is in 
store for you. I don’t believe jmu have the faintest idea why I am 
going to Oatlands at this minute.” 

“Well, I don’t, papa,” she said, “except through a madness of 
kindness.” 

“ Would it surprise you if I asked Mrs. Graham to take you with 
them for that sail to Suez or Aden?” 

She threw up her hands in affright. 

“ Alone?” she exclaimed, “ to ^o away alone with strangers?” 

“ Oh, no; I should be going also, of course.” 

“ But the time ” 

“ I should be back for the Budget. Yolande,” said he, gravely, 

I am convinced— I am seriously convinced— that no one should be 
allowed to sit in Parliament who has not visited Gibraltar, and the 
island of Malta, and such places, and seen how the empire is held 
together, and what our foreign possessions are ” 

“It is only an excuse, papa— it is only an excuse to give me 
another holiday ” 

, “Be quiet. I tell you the country ought to compel its legislators 


YOLAXDE. 


17 

to go out in batches— paying the expenses of the poorer ones, of 
course — and see for themselves what our soldiers and sailors are 
doing for us. I am certain that 1 have no right to sit in Parliament 
until 1 have visited the fortifications of Malta and inspected the Suez 
Canal.” 

‘‘ Oh, if it is absolutely necessary,” Yolande said, with a similar 
gravity. 

” It is absolutely necessary. 1 have long felt it to be so. I feel it 
is a duty to my country that we should personally examine Malta.” 

” Very well, papa,” said Yolande, who was so pleased to find her 
father in such good humor that she forbore to protest, even though 
she was vaguely aware that the confidence of the electorate of Slag- 
pool was again being abused in order that she should enjoy another 
long and idling voyage, with the only companion whom she cared 
to have with her. 

The Grahams were the very first people they saw when they 
reached Oatlands. Colonel Graham — a tall, stout, grizzled, good- 
natured-looking man — was lying back in a garden seat, smoking a 
cigar and reading a newspaper; while his wife was standing close 
by, calling to her baby, which plump small person w as vainly try- 
ing to walk to her, under the guidance of an ayah, whose dusky 
skin and silver ornaments and flowing garments of Indian red looked 
picturesque enough on an English lawn. Mrs. Graham was a pretty 
woman, of middle height, with a pale face, a square forehead, short 
hair inclined to curl, and dark gray eyes with black eyelashes, and 
black eyebrows. But along with her preltiness, which was only 
moderate, she had an exceedingly fascinating manner, and a style 
that was at least attractive to men. Women, especially w'hen they 
found themselves deserted, did not like her style; they said there 
was rather too much of it; they said it savored of the garrison flirt, 
and was obviously an importation from India; and they thought she 
talked too much, and laughed too much, and altogether had too lit- 
tle of the dignity of a matron. Mo doubt they would have hinted 
something about the obscurity" of her birth and parentage, had that 
been possible. But it was not possible; for everybody knew that 
when Colonel Graham married her, as his second wife, she was the 
only daughter of Lord Lynn, who w'as the thirteenth baron of that 
name in the peerage of Scotland. 

Now this pretty, pale-faced, gray-eyed woman professed herself 
overjoyed w'hen Mr. Winterbourne said there w’as a chance of his 
daughter and himself joining her and her husband, on their sug- 
gested P. and O. trip; but the lazy, good-humored-looking soldier 
glanced up from his paper and said— 

‘‘ Look here, Polly, it’s too absurd. What would people say? 
It’s all very well for you and me; we are old Indians and don’t 
n)ind; but if Mr. Winterbourne is coming with us— and you, Miss 
Winterbourne — we must do something more reasonable and Chris- 
tian like than sailing out to Suez or Aden and back, all for noth- 
ing.” 

‘‘ But nothing could suit us better!” Yolande’s father said— in- 
deed, he did not mind where or why he went, so long as he got away 
from England, and Yolande with him.” 

” Oh, but we must do something.” Colonel Graham said “ Look 


18 


YOLAXDE. 


here. When we were at Peshawur a young fellow came up there 
— you remember young Ismat, Polly? — well, I was of some little 
assistance to him; and he said any time we wanted to see something 
of the Nile I could have his father’s dahabeah — or rather one of 
them, for his father is Governor of Merhadj, and a bit of a swell, I 
fancy. There you are, now. That would be something to do. 
People wouldn’t think we were idiots. We could have our sail all 
the same to Suez, and see the old faces at Gib. and Malta; then we 
could have a skim up the Nile a bit — and, by the way, we shall have 
it all to ourselves just now.” 

‘‘ The very thing!” exclaimed Mr. Winterbourne eagerly, for his 
imagination seemed easily captured by the suggestion of anything 
remote. “Nothing could be more admirable! Yolande, what do 
you say?” 

Y^olande’s face was sufficient answer. 

“ My dear child,” said Mrs. Graham, in an awful whisper, “ have 
you got a Levinge?” 

“ A what?” said Y’olande. 

“ You have not? And you might have gone to Egypt at this time 
of the year, without a Levinge!” 

“ What are you talking about the time of the year, Polly!” her 
husband cried, peevishly, “ It is the only time of the year that the 
Nile is tolerable. It is no longer a cockney route. You have the 
whole place to yourself— at least so Ismat Effendi assured me; and 
if he has given me a wrong tip, wait till I get hold of him by the 
nape of his Egyptian neck. And you needn t frighten Miss Y"o- 
lande about mosquitoes or any of the other creatures of darkness; 
for j’^ou’ve only to get her one of those shroud things ” 

“ Just what I was saying!” his wife protested. 

“ Indeed, she seemed greatly pleased about this project; and when 
they went in to lunch, tliey had a table to themselves, so as to secure 
a full and free discussion of plans. Mrs. Graham talked in the most 
motherly way to Y^olande; and petted her. She declared that those 
voyages to America, of wliich Yolande had told her, had nothing of 
the charm and variety and picturesqueness of the sail along the 
African shores. Yolande would be delighted with it; with the peo- 
ple on board; with the ports they would call at; with the blue of the 
Mediterranean Sea. It was all a wonder, as shC described it. 

But she was a shrewd-headed little woman. Very soon after lunch 
she found an opportunity of talking with her husband alone 

“ I think Y^olande Winterbourne prettier and prettier the longer 1 
see her,” she said, carelessly. 

“ She’s a good-looking girl. You’ll have to look out, Polly. 
You won’t have the whole ship waiting or you this time.” 

“ And very rich — quite an heiress, they say.” 

“ I suppose Winterbourne is pretty well off.” 

“ He himself has nothing to do with the firm now, I suppose.” 

“ I think not.” 

“ Besides, making engines is quite respectable. Nobody could 
complain of that.” 

“ I shouldn’t if it brought me in £15,000 or £20,000 a year,” her 
husband said, grimly. “I’d precious soon have laterstro’uan added 
on to Inverstroy. ” 


tOIAKDi;. 


19 

“Oh,” she said blithely, “talking about the north, I haven’t 
heard from Archie for a long time. I wonder what he is about — 
watching the nesting of the grouse, I suppose. I say, Jim, 1 wish 
you’d let me ask him to go with us. It's rather dull for him up 
there; my father isn’t easy to live with. May I ask him?’’ 

She spoke very prettily and pleadingly. 

“ He’ll have to pay his own fare to Suez and back, then,” her 
husband answered, rather roughly. 

“Oh, yes; why not?’’ she said, with great innocence: “I am 
sure poor Archie is always willing to pay" when he can; and I do 
wish my father would be a little more liberal. I am sure he might. 
Every inch of shooting and fishing was let last year! — even the 
couple of hundred yards along the river that Archie always has had 
for himself. I don’t believe he threw a fly last year.” 

“ He did, on the Stroy,” her husband said gloomily. 

“ That was because you were so awfully good to him,” said his 
wife, in her sweetest manner. “And you can be awfully good to 
people, Jim, when you don’t let the black bear ride on your shoul- 
ders.” 

Then Mrs. Graham, smoothing her pretty short curls, and with 
much pleasure visible in the pretty dark-gray eyes, went to her own 
room and sat down, and wrote as follows: — 

“ Dear Archie, — Jim’s good nature is beyond anything. We 
are going to have a look at Gib. again, and at Malta, just for auld 
langsyne; and then Jim ta’ks of taking us up the Nile a bit; and 
he sa3’’s you ought to go with us, and you will only have to pay your 
passage to Suez and back — which you could easily save out of your 
hats and boots if you would only be a little less extravagant, and get 
them in Inverness instead of in London. Mr, Winterbourne, the 
member for Slagpool, is going with us; and he and Jim will halve 
the expenses of the Nile Voyage. Mr! Winterbourne’s daughter 
makes up the party. She is rather nice, I think; but only a child. 
Let me know at once. There is a P. and O. on the 17th— I think 
we shall catch that; Jim and the captain are old friends. 

“ Your loving sister, 

“ Polly.” 


She folded up the letter; put it in an envelope; and addressed it 


so— 


The Hon. the Master of Lynn, 
Lynn Towers, 

by Inverness, N.B. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. 

A VOYAGE in a P. and O. steamer is so familiar a matter to thou- 
sands of English readers that very little need be said about it here in 
detail, except, indeed, in so far as this particular voyage affected the 
fortunes of these one or two people. And Y^olande’s personal ex- 
periences began early. The usual small crowd of pas.sengers was 


YOLANDE. 


20 

assembled in Liverpool Street station— hurrying, talking, laughing, 
and scanning possible ship companions with an eager curiosity; and 
in the midst of them, Yolande, for a wonden— her father having 
gone to look after some luggage— found herself for the moment 
alone A woman came into this wide, hollow-resounding station, 
and timidly and yet anxiously scanned the faces of the various peo- 
ple who were on the platform adjoining the special train. She was 
a respectably dressed person, apparently a mechanic’s wife; but her 
features bore the marks of recent crying— they were all “ bagrutten,” 
as the Scotch say. She carried a small basket. After an anxious 
scrutiny — but it was only the women she regarded — she went up to 
Yolande. 

“ I beg your pardon, miss,” she said— but she could say no more, 
for her face was tremulous. 

Yolande looked at her; thought she was drunk; and turned away, 
rather friohtened. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon, miss ” And with that her trembling 

hands opened the basket, which was filled with fiowers. 

” No, thunk you; 1 don’t want any,” said Yolande, civilly. But 
there was something in the woman’s imploring eyes that said some- 
thin^to her. She was startled; and stood still. 

“Are — are you going further than Gibraltar, miss?” 

“ Yes. Yes, I think so,” said Yolande. wondering. 

There were tears running down the woman’s face. For a second 
or two she tried to speak, ineffectually; then she said — 

“ Two da3^s out from— from Gibraltar — would you be so kind, 
miss, as to put— these fiowers — on the water? My little girl was 
buried at sea — two days out.” 

“ Oh. I understand you,” said Yolande, quickly — with a big lump 
in her throat. “ Oh, yes, I will! 1 am so sorry for 3mu.” 

She took the basket. The woman burst out"cr5ing; and hid her 
face in her hands; and then turned to go away. She was so dis- 
tracted with her grief that she had forgotten even to say “ Thank 
you.” At the same moment Mr. 'Winterbourne came up— hastily 
and angrily. 

“ What is this?” 

“ Hush, papa! The poor woman had a little girl buried at sea — 
these are some flowers ” 

Yolande went quickly after her, and touched her on the shoulder. 

“ Tell me,” she said, “ what w^as your daughter’s name?” 

The woman raised her tear-stained face. 

“ Jane. We called her Janie; she was only three years old; she 
would have been tea by now You won’t forget, miss — it was — it 
was two days beyond Gibraltar that— that we buried her.” 

“Oh. no; do you think I could forget?” Yolande said, and she 
offered her hand. The woman took her hand, and pressed it; and 
said, “God bless you, miss— I thought I could trust your face;” 
then she hurried away. 

Yolande went back to her father, who, though closely watching 
her, was standing with the Grahams; and she told them (with her 
own eyes a little bit moist) of the mission with which she had been 
intrusted; but neither she nor they thought of asking why, out of 
all the people about to go down by the steamer train, tins poor worn- 


YOLANDE. 


21 


an should have picked out Yolande as the one hy whom she would 
like to have those flowers strewn on her child’s ocean-grave. Per- 
haps there was something in the girl’s face that assured the mother 
that she was not likely to forget. 

And at last the crowd began to resolve itself into those who were 
going and those who were remaining behind; the former establish- 
ing themselves in the compartments, the latter talking all the more 
eagerly as the time grew shorter. And Mrs. Graham was in despair 
because of the non-appearance of her brother. 

“ There,” she said to her husband, as the door of the carriage was 
finally locked, and the train began to move out of the station, ‘‘ I 
told you. 1 told you I should not be surprised. It is just like him 
— always wanting to be too clever. Well, his coolness has cost him 
something this time. I told you I should not at all be surprised if 
he missed the train altogether.” 

“ I don’t think the Master’s finances are likely to run to a special,” 
her husband said, good-humoredly. 

” Oh, it is too provoking!” exclaimed the pretty young matron 
(but, with all her anger, she did not forget to smooth her tightly fit- 
ting costume as she settled into her seat). ” It is too provoking! 1 
left Baby at home more on his account than any oneelse’s. If there 
was the slightest sound, I knew he would declare that Baby had 
been crying all the night through. There never was a better baby 
— never! Now, was there ever, Jim?” 

” Well, 1 can’t answer for all the babies that ever were in the 
world,” her husband said, in his easy, good-natured way; ” but it 
is a good enough baby, as babies go!” 

‘‘It is the very best-tempered baby 1 ever saw or heard of,” she 
said, emphatically; and she turned to Yolande. ” Just think, dear, 
of my leaving baby in England for two whole months, and mostly 
because 1 knew that my brother wmuld complain. And now he goes 
and misses the train— through laziness, or indifference, or wanting 
to be too sharp. ” 

‘‘ I should think that Baby would be much better off on land than 
on board ship,” said Yolande, with a smile. 

‘‘ Of course. Miss Winterbourne,” the Colonel said. ” You’re 
quite right. A baby on board a ship is a nuisance.” 

“Jim! You don’t deserve ” 

“ And then there’s another thing,” continued the stout and 
grizzled soldier, with the most stolid composure. “I’ve seen it 
often on board ship. 1 know what happens. If the mother of the 
baby is old or ugly, it’s all right; the baby is let alone. But if she’s 
young and good-looking, it’s wonderful how the young fellows 
begin and pet the baby, and feed it on toffy and oranges. What do 
they know? Hang ’em, they’d fetch 'up pastry from the saloon and 
give it to a twm-year-old. That ain’t good for a baby.” 

“Poor Archie!” said his wife, rather inconsequently, “ it will 
be such a disappointment for him.” 

“ I 11 tell you what it is,” said Colonel Graham, “ I believe that 
he has never heard that the P. and O. ships don’t stop at South- 
ampton now. Never mind, Polly; he can go overland, if he wants 
to catch us up at Cairo.” 

“Aud miss the whole voyage!” she exclaimed, aghast. ”Aud 


22 


TOLAiTDE. 


forfeit his passage money? Fancy the cost of the railway journey 
to Brindisi!” 

” Well, if people will miss trams, they must pay the penalty,” her 
husband remarked, quietly; and there was an end of that. 

A.t Tilbury there was the usual scramble of getting the luggage 
transferred to the noisy little tender; and the natural curiosity with 
which every one was eager to scan the great and stately vessel which 
was to be their floating home for many a day. And here there was 
a surprise for at least one of the party. When, after long delays, 
and after a hurried steaming out into the river, the tender was 
drawing near the side of the huge steamer, of course all eyes were 
turned to the decks above, where the picturesque costumes of the 
lascar crew were the most conspicuous points of color. But there 
were obviously a number of other people onboard, besides the dusky 
crew and their English officers. 

” There he is — 1 can make him out,” observed Colonel Graham. 

” Who?” his wife asked. 

“Why, the Master of Lynn,” he answered coolly. 

“ Well, I never!” she exclaimed, in either real or affected anger. 
“Sha’n’tl give it him! To think of his causing us all this dis- 
quietude!” 

“ Speak for yourself, Polly,” her husband said as he regarded a 
group of young men who were up on the hurricane-deck, leaning 
over the rail, and watching the approach of the tender. “ I wasn’t 
much put out, was 1? And apparently he hasn’t been; for he is 
smoking a cigar, and chatting to — yes, by Jove! it’s Jack Douglsis 
—and young Mackenzie of Sleat— oh, there’s Ogilvy’s brother-in- 
law— what do you call him?— the long fellow who broke his leg at 
Bombay— there’s young Frazer, too, eyeglass and all— a regular 
gathering of the clans — there’ll be some Nap going among those boys !” 

“ I hope you won’t let Archie play, then!” his wife said, sharply. 
But she turned with a charming little smile to Yolande, “ You 
mustn’t think my brother is a gambler, you know, dear; but really 
some of those young officers play far beyond their means, and Archie 
is very popular amongst them, 1 am told.” 

But by this lime everybody was scrambling on the paddle-boxes 
of the tender, and from thence ascending to the deck o^he steamer. 
The Master of Lynn was standing by the gangway, awaiting his sis- 
ter. He was a young man of four- or five-and-twenty, slim, 
well built, with a pale, olive complexion and a perfectly clean- 
shaven face; and he had the square forehead, the well-marked eye- 
brows, and the pleasant gray eyes with dark lashes that his sister 
had. But he had not her half curly hair; for his was shorn bare, in 
soldier fashion— though he was not a soldier. 

“ How are you, Graham? How are you, Polly?” said he. 

“ Well, I like your coolness!” his sister said, angrily. “Why 
were you not at the station? Why did you not tell us? Of course, 
we thought you had missed the train! I wish you would take the 
trouble to let people know what you are about. Let me introduce 
you to Miss Winterbourne — Yolande, dear, this is my brother, 
Archie— Mr. Winterbourne, my brother, Mr. Leslie. Well, now, 
what have you to say for yourself?” 

He had thrown away his cigar. 


YOLANDE. 


S3 

“ Not mucli/* said lie, smiling good-naturedly, and taking sotne 
wraps and things from her which her husband had selfishly allowed 
her to carry. “ I w^erit down to see some fellows at Chatham last 
night; and of course I stayed there and came over in the morning. 
Sorry 1 vexed you. You see. Miss Winterbourne, my sister likes 
platform parade; she likes to liave people round her for half an hour 
before the train starts; and she likes to walk up and down, for it 
shows olf her figure and her dress: isn’t that so, Polly? But you 
hadn’t half your display this morning, apparently. Where’s Baby? 
Where’s Ayah?” 

‘‘You know very well. You would have been grumbling all the 
time if I bad brought Baby.” 

“Well,” said he, looking rather aghast, “if you’ve left Baby 
behind on my account, 1 shall have a pleasant time of it. I don’t 
believe you. But tell me the number of your cabin, and I’ll take 
these things down for you. I’m on the spar-deck, thank goodness.” 

‘‘ Miss Winterbourne’s cabin is next to mine; so you can take her 
things down too.” 

‘‘No, thank you,” said Yolande, who was looking out for her 
luggage (her maid being in a hopeless state of bewilderment), and 
who had nothing in her hand but the little basket. ‘‘ I will take 
this down myself, by and by.” 

There was a great bustle and confusion on board; friends giving 
farewell messages; passengers seeking out their cabins; the bare- 
armed and bare-footed lascais, with their blue blouses and red tur- 
bans, hoisting luggage on to their shoulders and carrying it along 
the passages. Mr. Winterbourne was impatient. 

‘‘ 1 hate this — this confusion and noise,” he said. 

” But, papa,” said Y^olande, ‘‘ I know your things as well as mj' 
own. Jane and I will see to them when they come on board. 
Please go away and get some lunch — please! Everything will be 
quiet in a little while.” 

‘‘ I wish we were off,” he said, in the same impatient way. ” This 
delay is quite unnecessary. It is always the same. We ought to 
have started before now. Why doesn’t the captain order the ship to 
be cleared?” 

” Papa, dear, do go and get places at the table. The Grahams 
have gone below. And have something very nice waiting for me. 
See, there comes your other portmanteau, now; and there is only the 
topee-box; and I know it because I put a bit of red silk on the 
handle. Papa, do go down and get us comfortable places — 1 will 
come as soon as 1 have sent your topee-box to your cabin. I suppose 
we shall be near the Grahams.” 

” Oh, 1 know where Mrs. Graham will be,” her father said, pee- 
vishly. ‘‘ She will be next the captain. She is the sort of woman 
who always sits next the captain.” 

” Then the captain is very lucky, papa,” said Yolande mildly, 
” for she is exceedingly nice; and she has been exceedingly kind to 
me.” 

‘‘ I suppose the day will come when this captain, or any other 
captain, vrould be just as glad to have you sit next him,” he said. 

‘‘ Papa,” she said, with a smile, ‘‘ are you jealous of Mrs. Graham 


YOLANDE. 


24 

for my sake? I am sure I do not wish to sit next the captain; I 
have not even seen him yet that 1 know of.” 

But this delay, necessary or unnecessary, made him irritable and 
anxious. He would not go to the saloon until he had seen all the 
luggage— both his and Yolande’s— dispatched to their respective 
cabins. Then he began to inquire why the ship did not start? Why 
were the strangers not packed off on board the tender and sent 
ashore? Why did the chief officer allow these boats to be han^ ing 
about? The agent of the compan}’^ had no right to be standing talk- 
ing on deck two hours after the ship was timed to sail. 

Meanwhile Yolande stole away to her own cabin, and carefully, 
and religiously — and, indeed, with a little choking in the throat- 
opened the little basket that held the flowers, to see whether they 
might not be the better for a sprinkling of water. They were rather 
expensive flowers for a poor woman to have bought; and the damp 
moss in which they were imbedded, and the basket itself also, were 
more suggestive of Covent Garden than of Whitechapel. Yolande 
poured some water into the washhand-basin; and dipped her tingers 
into it; and very carefully and tenderly sprinkled the flowers over. 
And then she considered what was likely to be the coolest and safest 
place in the cabin for them; and hung the basket there; and then 
came out again— shutting the door, involuntarily, with quietness. 

She passed through the saloon and went up on deck. Her father 
was still there. 

Papa,” said she, ‘‘ you are a very unnatural person. You are 
starving me.” 

” Haven’t you had lunch, Yolande?” said he, with sudden com- 
punction. 

‘‘No, I have not. Do I ever have lunch without you? I am 
waiting for you.” 

” Really, this delay is most atrocious 1” he said. “ What is the 
use of advertising one hour, and sailing at another? There can be 
no excuse. The tender has gone ashore.” 

” Oh, but papa, they say there is a lady who missed the train, and 
is coming down by a special.” 

” I don’t believe a word of it! Why, that is worse. The absurd^ 
ity of keeping a ship like this waiting for an idiot of a woman!” 

” I am go hungry, papa!” 

“ Well, go down below, and get something. If you can. No 
doubt the gross mismanagement reaches to the saloon tables as well.” 

She put her hand within his arm, and half drew him along to the 
companion-way. 

” What is the difference of an hour or two,” said she, ” if we are 
to be at sea for a fortnight? Perhaps the poor lady who is coming 
down by the special train has some one ill abroad. And— and 
besides, papa, I am so very, very, very hungry.” 

He went down with her to the saloon, and look his place in silence. 
Yolande sat next to Mrs. Graham, who was very talkative and mer- 
ry-even though there was no captain in his place to do her honor. 
Young Archie Leslie was opposite; so was Colonel Graham. They 
were mostly idling; but Yolande was hungry, and they were atl 
anxious to help her at once, though the silent dusky stewards knew 
their duties well enough. 


YOLANDE. 


25 

By and by, when they were talking about anything or nothing, it 
occurred to the young Master of Ljmn to say — 

“ 1 suppose you don’t know that we’re off?” 

” No! impossible!” was the general cry. 

” Oh, but we are. though. Look!” 

Mr. Winterbourne quickly got up and went to one of the ports ; 
there, undoubtedly, were the river banks slowly, slowly going astern.’ 

He went back to his seat, putting his hand on Yolande’s shoulder 
as he sat down. 

” Yolande,” said he, ” do you know that we are off— really and 
truly going away from England— altogether quit from its shores?” 

His manner had almost instantly changed. His spirits quickly 
brightened up. He made himself most agreeable to Mrs. Grafiam; 
and was humorous in bis quiet, half-sardonic way; and was alto- 
gether pleased wMth the appearance and the appointments of the 
ship. To fancy this great mass of metal moving away like that and 
the throbbing of the screw scarcely to be detected! 

” You know, my dear Mrs. Graham,” he said, presently, ‘‘this 
child of mine is a most economical — even a penurious— creature, 
and I must depend on you to force her to make proper purchases 
at the different places— all the kinds of things that women-folk prize, 
<lon’i you know? Lace, now; what is the use of being at Malta if 
you don’t buy lace? And embroideries and things of that kind; 
she ought to bring back enough of Eastern silks and stuffs to last 
her a lifetime. And jewelry, too— silver suits her very well— she 
must gk plenty of that at Cairo.’' 

” Oh, you can leave that to my wife,” Colonel Gjaham said confi- 
dently. ” She’d buy up the Pyramids if she could take them home. 

I am glad it won’t be my money.” 

And this was but one small item of expectation. The voyage be- 
fore them furnished forth endless hopes and schemes. They all ad- ' 
journed to the hurricane-deck; and here his mood of contented 
cheerfulness was still more ob'dous. He was quite delighted with 
the c'eanness and order of the ship, and with the courtesy of the 
captain, and with the smart look of the ofhcers; and he even ex- 
pressed approval of the pretty, quiet, not romantic scenery of the 
estuary of the Thames. Yolande was with him. When they 
walked, they walked arm in arm. He said he thought the Grahams 
were likely to be excellent companions; Mrs. Graham w'as a charm- 
ing woman; there was a good deal of quiet humor about her hus- 
band; the Master of Lynn was a frank-mannered young fellow, with 
honest eyes. His step grew jaunty. He told Yolande she must, 
when in Egypt, buy at least half a dozen Eastern costumes, the more 
gorgeous the better, so that she should never be at a loss when asked 
to go to a fancy-dress ball. 

And at dinner, too, in the evening it was a delight to Yolande to 
sit next him and listen to his chuckles and his little jokes. Caro 
seemed to have left him altogether. The night, when they went on 
deck again, was dark; but a dark night pleased him as much as 
anything. Yolande was walking wdth him. 

And then they sat down with their friends; and Mrs. Graham had 
much to talk about. Yolande sat silent. Far away in the darkness 
a long thin dull line of gold was visible; she had been told that 


26 


yOLAN^DE. 


these were the lights of Bastings. It is a strange thing to sail past a 
country in the nighttime and to think of all the beating human 
hearts it contains — of the griefs, and despairs and hushed joys all 
hidden away therein the silence. And perhaps Yolande was think- 
ing most of all of the poor mother— whose name she did not know, 
whom she should never see again — but whose heart she knew right 
well was heavy that night with its aching sorrow. It was her first 
actual contact with human misery; and she cou’d not help thinking 
of the woman’s face. That was terrible, and sad beyond anything 
that she could have imagined. For indeed her own life so far had 
been among the roses. As Mrs. Graham had said she was but a 
child. 


CHAPTER V. 

MRS. BELL. 

“ It is really quite wonderful how intimate yon become with peo- 
ple on board ship, and how well you get to know them.” 

This not entirely novel observation was addressed to Yolande by 
the Master of Lynn; while these two, with some half dozen others, 
were grouped together in the companion-way, where they had taken 
shelter from the flying seas. The remark was not new; but he ap- 
peared to think it important. Re seemed anxious to convince her of 
its truth. 

“ It is really quite wonderful,” he repeated; and he regarded the 
pretty face as if eager to meet with acquiescence there. ” On board 
ship you get to know the characters of people so thoroughly; you 
can tell whether the f.neudship is likel.y to last after the vo3"age is 
over. Balls and dinner-parties are of no use; that is only acquaint- 
anceship; at sea you are thrown so much together — you are cut off 
from the world, you know — there is a kind of fellow feeling and 
companionship— that — that is quite different. Why,” said he, with 
his e.yes brightening, ” it seems absurd to think that the day before 
yesterda.y you and I were absolute strangers; and yet here you have 
been letting me bore you for hours by talking of Lyon and the people 
there ” 

” Oh, I assure you 1 am very grateful,” said Yolande, with much 
sincerity. ” But for you I should have been quite alone.” 

The fact is, they had encountered a heavy two-days’ gale outside 
the Bay of Biscay and south of that; and as the ship was a pretty 
bad roller sad havoc was wrought among the passengers. Mrs. Gra- 
ham had disappeared from the outset. Her husband was occasion- 
ally visible; but he w^as a heavy man, and did not like being knocked 
about, so he remained mostly in the saloon. Mr. Winterbourne was 
a good enough sailor; hut the noises at night — he had a spar-deck 
cabin — kept him awake; and he spent the best part of the daytime 
in his berth, trying to get fitful snatches of sleep. Accordingly, 
Yolande, who wanted to see the sights of the storm, betook herself 
to the companion-way, where she wmuld have been entirely among 
strangers (being somewhat reserved in her walk and conversation) 
had it not been forMr Leslie. He, too, proved himself to be a most 
agreeable companion— modesty assiduously attentive, good-natured 


YOLANDE. 


27 

and talkative, and very respectful. He was entirely governed by her 
wishes. He brought her the news of the ship — when it was not 
every one who would venture along the deck, dodging the heavy 
seas. He got her the best corner in this companion-way ; and the 
most comfortable of the chairs; and he had rugs for her, and a book, 
only that she w’^as far too much interested in what was going on 
around her to read. Once or twice, when she would stand by the 
door, he even ventured to put his hand on her arm— afraid lest she 
should be overbalanced and ihrowu out on the swimming-decks. 
For there was a kind of excitement amid the roar and crash of wind 
and w'ater. Who could decide which was the grander spectacle — 
that great mass of driven and tossing and seething silver that went 
out and out until it met a wall of black cloud at the horizon, or the 
view from the other side^if the vessel (with one’s back to the sun 
light) — the mountains of blue rolling by, and their crests so torn by 
the gale that the foam ended in a rainbow flourish of orange and red. 

“ They say she is rolling eighty-four degrees ‘ out and out,’ ” said 
Archie Leslie. 

“ Oh, indeed,” said Yolande, looking grave. ” But 1 don’t quite 
know what that means.” 

“ Neither do I,” said he; ” but it sounds well. What I do know 
is that you won’t see my sister until we get to Gib. You seem to be 
a capital sailor, Miss Winterbourne.” 

” 1 have otten had to be ashamed of it,” said Yolande. ” To day, 
also — there w’as no other lady at the table— oh, 1 cannot sit alone 
like that any more— no, I will rather have no dinner than go and sit 
alone — it is terrible — and the captain laughing.” 

” Poor fellow, he is not in a laughing mood just now.” 

” Why, then? There is no danger?” 

” Oh, no. But I hear he has had his head cut open — a chronom- 
eter falling on him in his cabin. However, I think he’ll show up at 
dinner; it is only a flesh w^ound. They’ve had one of the boats 
•stove in, they say- and some casks carried away; and a good deal of 
smashing forward, I wonder if your father has got any sleep— I 
should tliink not — I’ll go j^jid see how he is getting on, if you like.” 

” Oh, no; if he is asleep that is very well. No,” said* Yolande, 
” 1 wish you lo tell me more about your friend— the gentleman who 
was your tutor — that is a very strange life for any one to live.” 

What she wished was enough for him. 

‘‘I have not told you tlie strangest part of the story, ” said he, 

for you would not believe it.” 

Am I so unbelieving?” said she looking up. 

His eyes met hers— but only for an instant. Yolande’s eyes were 
calm, smiling, unconcerned; it was not in them, at all events, that 
confusion lay. 

“Of course I did not mean that,” said he; “but — but one has 
one’s character for veracity, don’t you know— and if 1 were to tell 
you about Mrs. Bell — the story is too improbable.” 

“ Then it is about Mrs. Bell that I wish to hear,” said Yolande, 
in her gentle imperious way, 

“ Besides, I’ve bored you all day long about those people in Inver- 
ness-shire. You will think I have never seen any one else; and never 
been anywhere else. Now I would much rather hear about the 


TOLANDE. 


28 

Chateau and the people there. 1 want you to tell me what you 
thou^t of America — after living in that quiet place.” 

“What 1 thought of America!” said Yolande, with a laugh. 
“ That is a question indeed!” 

“ Isn’t it the question that all Americans ask of you^l You have 
heard enough about the Inverness-shire people. Tell me about 
Rennes. Have you seen much of Paris? Did you like the Paris- 
ians?” 

“ Ah,” said she, “ you are not so obedient to me as my papa is.” 

“Fathers in Scotland are made of sterner stuff,” he answered. 
“We don’t talk that way.” 

“ Now, listen,” she said. “ I have the picture before me — every- 
thing complete— the lake, and Lynn Towers— the mountains and 
moorland — also the ravines where the deer take shelter — oh, yes, 
I can see all that quite clear— but the central figure, that is absent.” 

“ The central figure!” 

“ Mrs. Bell. ’ 

lie had quite forgotten about that lady; now he laughed. 

“ Oh, no,” he said; “ Mrs. Bell is not so important as that. She 
has nothing to do with Lynn. She lives at Gress.” 

“ Well, that is a beginning, at all events,” she remarked. 

“ Oh, but must I really tell you the story? You will try hard to 
believe?” 

“ I am not unbelieving.” 

“ Very well, then. I will tell you about Mrs. Bell, for I hope 
some day you will see her.” 

She looked up inquiringly. 

“ Yes — I am going to ask your father lo take a moor up there that 
I know of; and, of course, you would come to the lodge. If he 
cares about grouse-shooting, and isn’t afraid of hard wmrk, it is the 
very place for )iim. Then you would see my friend Melville— who 
ought to be Melville of Monaglen by rights — and may be he will be 
before Mrs. Bell has done with him.” 

“ Mrs. Bell again? Then I am to hear about her after all?” 

“Very well, then. Mrs. Bell is not Mrs, Bell; but Miss Bell; only 
the}' call her ‘Mrs.' because she is an elderly lady, and is rich, and 
is a substantial and matronly looking kind of nerson. Mrs. Bell 
w'as cook to the Melvilles — that was years and years ago, before old 
Mr. Melville died. But she was an ambitious party, and Gress 
wasn’t enough for her. She could read; audit isn’t every Highland 
servant-lass that can do that. She read cookery-books and made 
eKperiments. Now you see the adventures of Mrs. Bell don’t make 
a heroic story.” 

“ But 1 am listening,” said Yolande, with a calm air. 

“ She got to be rather clever, though there was not much chance 
for her in the Melvilles’ house. Then she w'ent to Edinburgh. All 
this is plain sailing. She got a situation in a hotel there; then she 
was allowed to try what she could do in the cooking line; then she 
was made head cook. That is the end of chapter one; and I sup- 
pose you believe me so far. Years went on, and Kirsty was earning 
a good wage; and all that we knew of her was that she used to send 
small sums of money occasionally to help one or two of the poor 
people in Gress who had been her neighbors; for she had neither 


YbLAKDE. 


S9 

kith nor kin of her own. Then there happened to come to the hotel 
in Edinburgh an elderly English gentleman who was traveling about 
for his health; and he was frightfully anxious about his food; and 
he very much appreciated the cooking at the hotel. He made in- 
quiries. He saw Kirsty, who was by this time a respectable middle- 
aged woman, getting rather gray. What does the old maniac do 
but tell her that he has only a few years to live; that the cooking 
of his food is about the most important thing to him in the world; 
that he has no near relatives to inherit his property; and that if she 
will go to Leicestershire and bind herself to remain cook in his house 
as long as he lived, he would undertake to leave her every penny he 
possessed when he died. ' I will,’ says Kirsty; but she was a wise 
woman, and she went to the lawvers, and had everything properly 
settled. Shall I go on. Miss Winterbourne? I don’t think my 
heroine interests you. 1 wish you could see old Mrs. Bell.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, go on. That is not so unbelievable. Of course I be- 
lieve you, is it necessary to say that?” 

Yolande’s calm demeanor was a little bit disturbed at this moment 
by a scattering of spray round her; but she quickly dried her red- 
gold hair and the smooth oval of her cheeks. 

” What comes after is a good bit stranger,” he continued. ” The 
old gentleman died; only he lived much longer than anybody ex- 
pected; and Kirsty, at the age of fifty-eight or so, found herself in 
possession of an income of very near £4000 a year— well, I believe it 
is more than that now, for the property has increased in value. And 
now begins what 1 can’t tell you half well enough — 1 wish you 
could hear Mrs. Bell’s own account— I mean of the schemes that 
people laid to inveigle her into a marriage. Y^ou know she is rather 
a simple and kindly hearted woman; but she believes herself to be 
the very incarnation of shrewdness; and certainly on that one point 
she showed herself shrewd enough. W'hen my sister reappears on 
deck again, you say to her ‘Kirsty kenned belter;’ and see if she 
does npt recognize the phrase. Mrs. Bell’s description of the vari- 
ous offers of marriage she has had beats anylhing; but it was always 
‘ Kirsty kenned bette^.’ Yes; and among these was a formal pro- 
posal from Lord , — 1 mean the father of the present Lord ; 

and that proposal was twice repeated; you know the s are 

awfully poor; and that one was at his wits’ end for money. But 
Kirsty was not to be caught. Among other things, he stipulated 
that he was to be allowed to spend eight months of the year in Lon- 
don, she remaining either in Leicestershire or in the Highlands, as 

she pleased. More than that, he even got the Duke of to write 

to Miss Bell, and back up the suit, and promise that, if she wmuld 
consent, he would himself go down and give her away ” 

” The great Duke of ?” said Y^olande, with her eyes a little 

bit wider. 

‘‘Yes; the late Duke. 1 thought 1 should astonish you. But I 
have seen the Duke’s letter — it is one of Mrs. Bell’s proudest posses- 
sions— I have no doubt you will see it for yourself some day. But 
Kirsty kenned better ” 

‘‘ What did she do, then?” 

‘‘ What did she do? She went back to Gress, like a sensible woman. 
And she is more than sensible; she is remarkably good-natured; and 


YOLANDE. 


30 

she sought out the son of her old master — that’s my friend Melville, 
you know — and then she tried all her flattery and shrewdness on 
him, until she got him persuaded that he should live in Gress — he was 
cadging about for another tutorship at the time — and make a sort of 
model village of it, and have old Kirsty for his ‘housekeeper. Ob, 
she’s clever enough in her way. She has picked up very good man- 
ners; she can hold her own with anybody. Moreover, she manages 
Melville most beautifully; and he isn’t easy to manage. She is 
always very respectful; and makes him believe he is doing her a 
great kindness in spending her money in improving the village, and 
all that; but what she really means, of course, is that he should be 
a kind of small laird in the place that used to belong to his people. 
A)id that is what the woman means to do — 1 know it — 1 am certain 
of it. If ever Monaglen comes into the market, she’ll snap it up; 
she must have a heap saved, besides the original bulk of her prop 
erty. Sooner or later she’ll make Jack Melville ‘ Melville of Mona 
glen,’ as sure as he’s alive.” 

“You and he are great friends, then?” 

Ob, he rather sits upon me,” the Master of Lynn said, modestly; 
“ but we are pretty good friends, as ihings go.” 

The gale did not abate much that afternoon; on the contrary, the 
great ship seemed to be rolling more heavily than ever; and at one 
minute a little accident occurred that might have been attended with 
more serious consequences. Mr. Winterbourne and young Leslie, 
not being able to reach the smokingrroom on account of the seas 
coming over the bows, had sought shelter on a bench immediately 
aft of the hurricane deck ; and there, enveloped in waterproofs, they 
were trying to keep their cigars alight. Unfortunately, the lashings 
securing this bench had not been very strong and at one bad lurch 
of the vessel— indeed the deck seemed to be at right angles with the 
water below them — away the whole thing went, spinning down to 
leeward. Leslie was a smart young fellow; saw what was coming; 
and before the bench had reached the gunwale, he had with one 
hand swung himself on to the ladder ascending to the hurricane 
deck, while with the other he had seized hold of his companion’s 
coat. Probably, had he not been so quick, the worst that could 
have happened was that the two of them might have had a thorough 
sousing in the water surging along the scuppers; but when Yolande 
heard of the accident, and when Mr. Winterbourne, rather sadly, 
showed her his waterproof , which had been half torn from his back, 
she was instantly convinced that young Leslie had saved her father’s 
life. 

In consequence she was much less imperious and willful in her 
manner all that afternoon ; and was even timidly polite to him. She 
consented, without a word, to go down to dinner — although, again, 
she was the only lady at table. And, indeed, dinner that evening 
was entirely a ludicrous performance. When Mr. Winterbourne 
and Yolande and young Leslie got to the foot of the companion 
stairs, and, with much clinging, prepared to enter the saloon, the 
first thing they saw before them was a sudden wave of white that 
left the table and crashed against the walls. The stewards regarded 
the broken crockery with a ghastly smile, but made no immediate 
effort to pick up the fragments. The ” fiddles ” on the table were 


YOLAKDE. 


31 


found to be of no use whatever. When these three sat down, they 
■'ould only make sure of such things as they could keep their fingers 
''on. Buttressing was of no avail. Plates, tumblers, knives and 
'ks, broke away, and steeplechased over the fiddles, until the final 
isli on the walls brought their career to a close. The din was 
ful; and Mr. Winterbourne was much too anxious about the ob- 
its around him to be able to make his customary little jokes. But 
iey got through it somehow; and the only result of these wild 
dventures with rocketing loaves and plates and bottles was that 
Y'olande and the .young Master of Lynn seemed to be on more and 
more friendly and familiar terms. Yolande talked to him as frankly 
as if he had been her brotbfr. 

Next day matters mended considerably; and the next again broke 
blue and fair and shining, with an immense number of Mother 
Cary’s chickens skimming along the sunlit waters. Far away in 
the south the pale line of the African coast was visible. People 
begad to appear on deck who had been hiding for the last couple of 
days; Mrs. Graham was up and smiling, in an exceedingly pretty 
costume. When should they reach Gibraltar? Who was going 
ashore? We-fe there many “ scorpions ” on board? 

Yolande was not much of a politician; but her father being some- 
thing of a “ Jingo,” of course she was a “Jingo” too: and she 
was very proud when, toward the afternoon, they drew nearer and 
nearer to the great gray-scarred rock that commands the Mediter- 
ranean; and her heart warmed at the sight of a little red speck on 
one of the ramparts — an English sentry keeping guard there. And 
when they went ashore, and wandered through the streets, she had 
as much interest in plain Tommy Atkins in his red coat as in any of 
the more picturesquely clad Spaniards or Arabs she saw there; and 
when they went into the Alameda to hear the military band play, 
she knew by a sort of instinct that among the ladies sitting in their 
cool costumes under the maples and acacias such and such groups 
were Englishwomen — the wives of ihe officers, no doubt — and she 
would have liked lo have gone and spoken to them. “ Gib.” seemed 
to her to be a bit of England, and therefore friendly and familiar; 
she thought the place looked tremendously .strong; and she was glad 
to see such piles of shot and ranged rows of cannon; and she had a 
sort of gratitude in her heart toward the officers, and the garrison, 
and even the Englishwomen sitting there, with a tint of sunbrown 
on their cheeks, but an English look in their eyes. And all this was 
absurd enough in a young minx who made a fool of English idioms 
nearly every time she opened her mouth! 

What a beautiful night that was as they sailed away from the va.st 
gray Rock. The moon was growing in strength now; and the 
heavens were olear. The passengers had begun to form their own 
little groups; acquaintanceships had been made; chairs drawn closer 
together on the deck, in the silence, under the stars. And along 
there the skylight of the saloon was open; and there was a yellow 
glare coming up fiom below; also the .sound of .singing. They were 
at duets below — two or three young people; and whether they sung 
well or ill, the effect was pleasant enough, with the soft murmur ol 
the l\rediterranean all around. “ O, who will o’er the down so 
free ” — of co.irse they sang that; people always do sing that on board 


. 


32 


YOLAKDE. 


ship. Then they sang, ‘ 1 would that my love couAl silently,” anu 
mauy another old familiar air, the while the vessel churned '> 1 : its 
way through the unseen waters, and the pale shadows ihrowr- h- 
the moon on the white decks slowly moved with the motion : > ’ t 
vessel. It was a beautiful night. 

The Master of Lynn came aft from the smoking-room, ar d i 
his brother-in-law on the way. 

” This is better, isn't it?” said Colonel Graham. ” This is i io ’ 
like what I shipped for.” 

“ Yes, this is better. Do you know where the Winterbou* 
are?” 

” In the saloon. 1 have just left therrpthere. ” 

Young: Leslie was passing on ; but he stopped, 

” 1 say, Graham, I’ve noticed one thing on board this ship 
already.” 

” What?” 

” You watch to-morrow, if they’re both on deck at the same time. 
You’ll find that Polly has got all the men about her; and Miss Win- 
terbourne all the children. Odd, isn’t it?” 


CHAPTER YI. 

ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. 

They were indeed cut off from the rest of the world, as they went 
plowing their way through these blue Mediterranean seas. Day 
after day brought its round of amusements; and always the sun 
shining on the white decks; and the soft winds blowing; and now 
and again a swallow, or dove, or quail, or some such herald from 
unknown coasts, taking refuse for awhile in the rigging or fluttering 
along by the vessel’s side. There was an amateur photographer on 
board, moreover; and many were the groups that were formed and 
taken; only it was observed that when the oflicers were included the 
captain generally managed to have Yolande standing on the bridge 
beside him — a piece of favoritism that broke through all rules and 
regulations. There was a good deal of ” Bull ” played; and it was 
wonderful how, when IMrs. Graham was playing, there always hap- 
pened to be a number of those young Highland officers about, ready 
to pick up her quOits for her. And always, but especially on the 
bright and breezy forenoons, there was the constitutional tramp up 
and down the long hurricane-deck — an occupation of which Yolande 
was particularly fond, and in which she found no one could keep 
up with her so untiringly as the Master of Lynn. She was just as 
well pleased, however, when she was alone; for then she sang to 
herself, and had greater freedom in flinging her arms about. 

Look at her,” her father said, one morning, to Mrs. Graham- 
concealing his admiration under an air of (jhagrm. ‘‘ Wouldn’t you 
think she was an octopus, or a windmill, or something like that?” 

” I call it a rattling good style of walking,” said Colonel Graham, 
interposing. “Elbows in; palms out. She is a remarkably well 
made young woman— that’s my opinion.” 

“ But she isn’t an octopus,” her father said, peevishly. 


YOLANDE. 


33 

“Oh, that is merely an excess of vitality,” her champion said. 
“Look how springy her walk is! I don’t believe her heel ever 
touches the deck — all her walking is done with the frout part of her 
foot. Gad! it's infectious,” continued the Colonel, with a grim 
laugh. “ I caught myself tr^dng it when I was walking with her 
yesterday. But it ain’t easy at fifteen .stone.” 

“ She need not make herself ridiculous,” her father said. 

“Ridiculous? I think it’s joll3' to look at her. Makes one feel 
young again. She don’t know that a lot of old fogies are watching 
her. Bet a sovereign she’s talking about dancing. Archie’s devil- 
ish fond of dancing — so he ought to be at his time of life. They say 
they’re going to give us a ball to-night— on deck.” 

Pretty Mrs. Graham was a trifle impatient. There were none of the 
young officers about, for a wonder; they had gone to have their 
after-breakfast cigar in the smoking-room — and perhaps a little game 
of Nap, therewithal. This study of Yolande’s appearance had 
lasted long enough, in her opinion. 

“ It is clever of her to wear nothing on her head,” she said, as she 
took up a book, and arranged herself in her chair. “ Pier hair is 
her best feature.” 

But what Yolande and her companion, young Leslie, were talking 
about, as they marched up and down the long white decks— occa- 
sionally stopping to listen to a small group of lascars, who were 
chanting a monotonous sing-song refrain— had nothing in the world 
to do with dancing. 

“ You think, then, I ou^ht to speak to your father about the 
moor? Would you like it?” said he. 

‘ I?” she said. “ That is nothing. If my papa and I are 
together, it is not any difference to me where we are. But if it is so 
wild and remote, that is what my papa will like.” 

“ Remote!” said he, with a laugh. “ It is fourteen miles away 
from anywhere. 1 like to hear those idiots talking who say the 
Highlands are overrun with tourists. Much they know about the 
Highlands. Well, now they’ve got the railway to Oban, I suppose 
Oban is prettj bad. But this place that 1 am telling you of — why, 
you would not see a strange face from one year’s end to the other!” 

“ Oh, that will exactly suit my papa— exactly,” she said, with a 
smile. “ Is it very, mry far away from everything and every one?” 

“ Isn’t it!” he said, grimly. “ Why, it’s up near the sky, to be 
gin wdth I should say the average would be near three thousand 
feet above the level of the sea. iVnd as for remoteness — well, per- 
haps Kingussie is not more than fourteen miles off as the crow flies; 
but then you’ve got the Monalea mountains between it and you; and 
the Monalea mountains are not exactly the sort of place that a couple 
of old ladies would like to climb in seareh of wild flow^ers. Y^ou 
see, that is the serious part of it for you. Miss Winterbourne. Fancy 
tne change between the temperature of the Nile and that high moor- 
land.” 

“ Oh, that is nothing,” she said. “ So long as I am out of doors, 
the heat or the cold is to me nothing — nothing at all.”’ 

“ The other change,” he continued, “ I have no doubt would be 
striking enough— from the busy population of Egypt to the solitude 
of Allt-unrh ha. ” 


34 


YOLAXDE. 


What is it? Allt ” 

“ Allt-nam ba, It means the Stream of the Cows, though there 
are no cows there now. They have some strange names there — left 
by the people wlio have gone away. I suppose people did live there 
once; though what they li red on 1 can’t imagine. They have left 
names, anyway some of them simple enough— the Fair Winding 
Water, the Dun Water, the Glen of the Horses, the Glen of the Gray 
Loch, and so forth — but some of them 1 can’t make out at all. One 
is the Glen of the Tombstone; and 1 have searched it, and never 
could And any trace of a Tombstone. One is the Cairn of the Wan- 
derers; and they must have wandered a good bit before they got up 
there. Then there is a burn that is called the Stream of the Fairies 
— Uii^ge nan Sithean — that is simple enough; but there is another 
place that is called Black Fairies. IS'ow who on earth ever heard of 
black fairies?” 

” But it is not a frightful place?” she said. ” It is not terrible- 
gloomy?” 

“ Not a bit!” said he. ” These are only names. No one knows 
how they came there— that is all. Gloomy? I think the strath 
from the foot of the moor down to our place is one of the prettiest 
straths in Scotland.” 

” Then I should see Lynn Towers?” she said. 

'■ Oh, yes — it isn’t much of a building, you know.” 

” And Mr. Melville of 31onaglen — that would be interesting to 
me. ” 

” Oh, yes,” said he; ” but — but 1 wouldn’t call him Monaglen — 
do you see — he hasn’t got Monaglen — perhaps he may have it back 
some day.” 

‘‘And you,” she said, turning her clear eyes toward him, — 
” sometimes they call you Master — is it right?” 

He smiled. 

‘‘ Oh. that is a formal title— in Scotland. Colonel Graham makes 
a little joke of it — I suppose that is what you have heard.” 

” 1 must not call you so?” 

‘‘Oh, no ” — and then he said, with a laugh: ” You may call me 
anything you like — what’s the odds? If you want to please my 
brother-in-law you should call him Inverstioy.” 

‘‘ But how can I remember?” she said, holding up her fingers and 
counting. ” Not Monaglen. Not Master. But, yes, Inverstroy. 
And Mrs. Bell — shall 1 see her?” 

” Certainly,' ‘if you go there.” 

‘‘ And the mill-wheels, and the electric lamps, and all the strange 
things?” 

” Oh, yes, if Jack Melville takes a fancy to vou. He doesn’t to 
everybody.” 

” Oh, I am not anxious,” she said, with a little dignity. “ 1 do 
not care much about such things. It is no matter to me.” 

” 1 beg your pardon a thousand times!” he said, with much ear- 
nestness. ” Really. 1 was not thinking of what I wassaying. I was 
thinking of Jack Melville’s ways. Of course he’ll be defighted to 
show you everything— he will be perfectly delighted to show vou 
everything— he will be perfectly d-ligUted. He is awfully coiirteouf' 


YOLANDE. 


35 


to strangers. He will be quite delighted to show the whole of 
his instruments and apparatus.” 

” It is ver}’- obliging,” she said, with something of coldness, “ but 
there is no need that I should be indebted to Mr. Melville.” 

” Not of Monaglen,” he said demurely. 

” Of Monaglen, or not of Monaglen,” she said, with high indiffer- 
ence. ” Come, shall we go and tied my papa, and tell him about 
the wild, far place, and the Sir :ain of the Fairies?” 

” No, wait a moment. Miss Winterbourne.” said he, with a touch 
of embarrassment, ” You see. that shooting belongs to my lather. 
And I look after the letting of our shootings and fishings when 1 am 
at home; though of course we have an agent. Now— now — 1 don’t 
quite like taking advantage of a new friendship to — to— make such 
a suggestion— 1 mean 1 would rather sink the shop. Perhaps your 
father might get tome other shooting up there.” 

” But not with the Glen of the Black Fairies, and the strath, and 
Lynn Towers near the loch where the char are, and all that you 
have told me. No; if I am not to see Mrs. Bell— if 1 am not to 

see ” She was going to say Mrs. Melville of Monaglen, but she 

waved that aside with a gesture of petulance. ” No. 1 wish to see 
all that you have told me about; and 1 think it would be pleasant if 
w'e were neighbors.” 

” Y'ou really must have neighbors,” said he, eagerly, ” in a place 
like that! That is one thing certain. I am sure we should tr3>- to 
make it as pleasant for you as possible. I am sure my father would. 
And Polly would be up sometimes — I mean Mrs. Graham. Oh, 1 
assure you, if it was an}' other shooting than Allt-nam ba 1 should 
be ver}' anxious that you and your father should come and take it. 
Of course, the lodge is not a grand place.” 

” We will go and talk about it now,” she said, ” to my papa; and 
you can explain.” 

Now, as it turned out, although Mr. Winterbourne was rather 
staggered at first by Yolande’s wild project of suddenly changing 
the idle luxuries of a Nile voyage for the severities of a moorland 
home in the north, there was something in the notion that attracted 
him. He began to make inquiries. The solitariness, the remoteness 
of (he place seemed to strike him. Then ten hundred and fifty 
brace of grouse, a few black game, a large number of mountain 
harcvs, six stags, was a good return for nine week’s shooting, and the 
last tenant had not had experts with him. Could Yolaude have a 
piano or a harmonium sent to her away in that wilderness? — any- 
thing, to break the silence of the hills. And Mr. Winterbourne was 
unlike most people who are contemplating the renting of a moor; 
the cost of it was the point about which he thought least. But to 
be away up there — with Yolande. 

” Of course it is just possible that the place may have been let 
since I left,” the Master of Lynn said. ‘‘ We have not had it vacant 
for many years back. But that could easily be ascertained at Malta 
b}' telegram.” 

” Y'ou think you would like the place, ITolande?” her father said. 

” I think «o; yes.” 

” You would not die of cold?” 

” Not willingly, papa— I mean 1 would try not— I am not afraid. 


YOLANDE. 


36 

You must go somewhere, papa; there is no Parliament then; you 
are fond of shooting; and there will be many days, not with shoot- 
ing, for you and me to wander in the mountains. I think that will 
be nice.” 

“ Very well. 1 will take the place, Mr. Leslie, if it is still vacant; 
and 1 hope we shall be good neighbors; and if you can send us a 
deer or two occasionally into the ravines you speak of, we shall be 
much obliged to you. And now about dogs— and gillies— and 
ponies.” 

But this proved to be an endless subject of talk between these tw^o, 
both then and thereafter; and so Yolande stole away to look after 
her own affairs Amongst other things she got hold of the purser, 
and talked so coaxingly to him that he went and ordered the cook 
to make two sheets of toffy instead of one — and all of white sugar; 
so that when Yolande subseiiuently held her afternoon levee among 
the children of the steerage passengers she was provided with sweet 
stuff enough to make the hearts of the mothers quake with fear. 

It was that evening that she had to put the flowers overboard — on 
the wide and sad and uncertain grave. She did not wish any one 
to see her, somehow; she could not make it a publi«j ceremony — this 
compliance with the pathetic, futile wishes of the poor mother. She 
had most carefully kept the flowers sprinkled with water, and, 
despite of that, they had got sadly faded and shriveled; but she had 
purchased another basketful at Malta, and these were fresh enough. 
What mattered? The time was too vague; the vessel’s course too 
uncertain; the trifles of flowers would soon be swallowed up in the 
solitary sea. But it was the remembrance of the mother she was 
thinking of. 

She chose a moment when every one was down below at dinner, 
and the de(*k was quite deserted. She took the two little baskets to 
the rail, and there, very slowly and reverently, she took out handful 
after handful of the flowers and dropped them dowm on the waves, 
and watched them go floating and floating out and out on the sw^ay- 
iug waters. The tears were running down her face; and she had 
foraotten whether there was anybody by or not. She was thinking 
of the poor woman in England. Would she know? Could she see? 
Was slie sure that her request would not be forgotten? And indeed 
she had not gone so far wrong when she had trusted to the look of 
Yolande’s lace. 

Then,* fearing her absence might be noticed, she went quickly to 
her cabin, bathed her eyes in cold water, and then went below - 
where she found the little coterie at their end of the table all much 
exercised abo\it Mr, Winterbourne’s proposal to spend the autumn 
about the wild solitudes of Allt nam-ba. He, indeed, declared he 
had nothing to do with it. It was Yolande’s doing. He had never 
heard of Allt-nam-ba. 

” It is one of the best grouse moors in Scotland, I admit that,” 
Colonel Graham said, with an ominous smile; “but it is a pretty 
stiflish place lo work over,” 

‘‘ You talk like that, Jim,” said his wife (who seemed anxious 
that the Winterbournes should preserve their fancy for the place), 
” because you are getting too stout for hill work. We shall And you 


TOLANDE. 3 ? 

on a pony soon. 1 should like to see you shooting from the back of 
a pony.” 

“Bolter men than me have done that,” said Inverstroy. good- 
humoredly. 

They had a concert that night — not a ball, as was at first intended; 
and there was a large assemblage, even the young gentlemen of the 
smoking room having forsaken their Nap, when they heard that 
Mrs. Graham was going to sing. And very well she sang, too, with 
a thoroughly trained voice of very considerable compass. She sang 
all the new society songs, about wild melancholies and regrets and 
things of that kind; but her voice was really fine in quality; and 
one almost believed for Ihe moment that the pathos of these spas- 
modic things was true. And then her dress— how beautifully it 
fitted her neat little shoulders and waist! Her curly short hair was 
surmounted by a coquettish cap; she had a circle of diamonds set in 
silver round her neck; but there were no rings to mar the symmetry 
of her plump and pretty white hands. And how assiduous those boy 
officers were, although deprived of their cigars! They hung round 
the piano; they turned over the music for her — as well as an eye- 
glass permitted them to see; nay, when she asked, one of them sent 
for a banjo, and performed a solo on that instrument — performing 
it very well too. None of the unmarried girls had the ghost of a 
chance. Poor Yolande, in her plain pale pink gown, was nowhere. 
All eyes were directed on the smart little figure at the piano; on the 
stylish costume; the charming profile, with its outward sweep of 
black lashes; on the graceful arms and white fingers. For a smile 
from those clear dark gray eyes, there was not one of the tall youths 
standing there wdio would not have sworn to abjure sporting news- 
papers for the rest of his natural life. 

There was only one drawback to the concert, as a concert. To 
keep the saloon cool the large ports astern had been opened; and 
the noise of the winter rushing away from the screw was apt to 
drown the music. 

“ Miss Winterbourne,” some one said to Yolande— and she start- 
ed, for she had been sitting at one of the tables, imagining herself 
alone, and dreaming about tlie music, “ one can hear far better on 
deck. Won’t you come up and try?” 

It wms the Master of Lynn. 

“ Oh, yes,” said she, “ thank J^ou.” 

She went with him on deck, expecting to find her father there. 
But Mr. AV interbourne had gone to tlie smoking-room. No matter. 
All companions are alike on board ship. Young Leslie brought her 
a chair; and put it close to the skylight of the saloon; and he sat 
down there too. They could hear pretty well; and they could talk 
in the intervals. The night was beautifully quiet; and the moon- 
light whiter than ever on the decks. These southern nights were 
soft and fitted for music; they seemed to blend the singing below 
and the gentle rushing of the sea all round. And Yolande was so 
friendly — and frank to plain-spokenness. Once or twice she laughed ; 
it was a low, quiet, pretty laugh. 

Such were the perils of the deep that lay round them as they sailed 
along those southern seas. And at last they were nearing Malta. 


38 


TOLAKDE. 


On the night before they expected to reach the inland Mrs. Graham 
took occasion to have a quiet chat with her brother. 

“ Look here, Archie, we shall all be going ashore to-morrow, I 
suppose," said she. 

“ No doubt." 

" And Idare say," she added, fixing her clear, pretty, shrewd eyes 
on him, “ that you will be going away to the Club with tiiose young 
fellows, and we shall see nothing of you." 

" We shall be all over the place, I suppose," he answered. 
" Most likely I shall luncli at the Club. Graham can put me down; 
he is still a member, isn’t he?" 

" It would be a good deal more sensible-like," said his sister, " if 
you gave us lunch at a hotel." 

" 1?" he cried, with a laugh. ‘‘ I like that! Considering my in- 
come, and Inverstroy’s income, a ])roposal of that kind strikes one 
with a sort of coolness " • 

"I didn’t mean Jim and me only," said Mrs. Graham, sharply. 

Jim can pay for his own luncheon, and mine too. Why don’t 
you ask the Winterbournes?" 

This was a new notion altogether. 

" They wouldn't come, w'ould they?" he said, diffidently. " It 
is not a very long acquaintance. Still, they seem so friendly — and 
I’d like it awfully— if you think you could get Miss Winterbourne 
to go with you. Do you think you could, Polly? Don’t you see, 
we ought to pay them a compliment— they’ve taken all Allt-mim-ba." 

" Miss Winterbourne," said Mrs. Graham, distantly, " is going 
ashore with me to-morrow. Of course we must have lunch some- 
where, If you men like to go to the Club, very well! I suppose 
we shall manage." 

- Well, perhaps it was only a natural thing to suggest. The Win- 
terbournes had been kind to him. Moreover, Vo men do not like to 
be left to walk up and down the Strada Reale by themselves when 
they know that their husbands and brothers are enjoying themselves 
.at the Union Club. Bui it is probable that neither Mrs. Graham nor 
the young Master of Lynn quite fully recollected that attentions and 
civilities which are simple and customary on board ship — w hich are 
a necessity of the case (people consenting to become intimate and 
familiar through being constantly throvvn together) — may, on land, 
where one returns to the conventionalities of existence, suddenly 
assume a very different complexion, and may even appear to have a 
startling significance. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A DAY ASHORE. 

Most "landward” people, to use the Scotch phrase, would im- 
agine that on board ship hulies would be content with any rough- 
and-lumble costume that would serve all purposes from morning "till 
* night. But on a long voyage the very reverse is the case. Nowhere 
else do women dress with more elaborate nicety, and with such 
studied exhibition of variety as their tolerably capacious wardrobes 
permit. For one thing, they have no more engrossing occupation. 


YOLAlSiDE. 


39 

They can spend hours in their cabin devising new combinations; 
and as many of them are going to live abroad they have with them 
all their worldly gear from which to pick and choose. It is a break 
in the monotony of the day to have one dress at breakfast, another 
for forenoon games and lunch, another for the afternoon promenade, 
another for the meal of state in the evening. Then nowhere else are 
well-made costumes seen to such advantage; the deck is a wide 
stage, and there is the best of light for colors. Moreover, in a 
woman’s eyes it is worth while to lake trouble about dressing well 
on board ship; for it is no fleeting glance that rewards her pains. 
1 he mere change of a brooch at the neck is noticed. 

But 'all the innocent little displays that had been made during the 
long voyage were as nothing on board this ship to the grand trans- 
formation that took place in view of the landing at Malta. The 
great vessel was now lying silent and still; her screw no longer 
throbbing; and instead of the wide, monotonous circle of water 
around her, here were bine arms of the green sea running into the 
gray-green island; and great yellow bastions along the shore; and 
over these again a pale white and pink town straggling along the 
low-lying hills. After breakfast the men folks were left in undis- 
turbed possession of the deck. They were not anxious about their 
costume — at least, the middle-aged ones v.mre not. They smoked 
their cigars, and leaned over the rail, and watched the swarm of 
gayly painted boats that were waiting to take them ashore. And 
perhaps some of them were beginning to wish that the women would 
look alive; for already the huge barges filled w'ith coal w'ere draw- 
ing near, and soon the vessel would be enveloped in clouds of dust. 

Then the women began to come up, one by one; but all trans 
formed! They were scarcely recognizable by mere acquaintances. 
There was about them the look of a Sunday afternoou in Kensing- 
ton Gardens; and it was strange enough on the deck of a ship. Peo- 
ple who had been on sufficiently friendly terms now grew a little 
more reserved; these land costumes reminded them that on shore 
they might have less claim to a free-and-easy companionship. And 
Mr. Winterbourne grew anxious. Did Yolaude know? The maid 
she had brought with her, and whose services she had agreed to 
share with Mis. Graham, had been useless enough, from the moment 
she put foot on board the ship; but surely she must have leained 
wdiat was going forward? Perhaps Yolaude would appear in her 
ordinary pale pink morning dress? She was far too content with 
birnplicily in costume. Again and again he had had to rebuke her. 

“ Why don’t you have more dresses?” he had said to he;- on 
board this very ship. “Look at Mrs. Graham. Why don’t you 
have as many dresses as Mrs. Graham? A married lady? What 
difference does that make? I like to see you prettily dressed. When 
I want you to save money I will tell you. You can’t get them at 
sea? Well, of course not; but you might have got them on shore. 
And if it meant more trunks, what is the use of Jane ?” 

He was a nervous and fidgety man, and he was beginning to be 
really concerned about Y'olande’s appearance, when he caught a 
glimpse of Yolande herself, coming out on to the deck from the 
cf>mpanion-way. He was instantly satisfied. There was nothing 
striking about her dress, it is true— the skirt and sleeves were (jf 


40 


YOLANDE. 


dark blue'-velvet, the rest of dark blue linen, and she wore her white 
silver belt— but at all events it was different; and then the flat dark 
blue Scotch cap looked pretty enough on her ruddv golden hair. 
Indeed, he need not have been afraid that Yolaude would have ap- 
peared insignificant anyhow or anywhere. Her tali stature; her 
slender and graceful figure; her air and carriage — all these rendered 
her quite sufficiently distinguished looking; even when one was not 
near enough to know anything of the fascination of her eyes and the 
pretty, nathetic mouth. 

And yet he was so anxious that she should acquit herself well — 
he was so proud of her — that he went to her quickly and said — 

“ That is one of the prettiest of 3mur dresses, Yolande — very pretty 
— and its suits your silver girdle very well— but the Scotch cap- 
well, that suits you too, you know ” 

“ It is Mrs. Graham’s, papa. She asked me to wear it— in honor 
of Allt-narn-ba.” 

“Yes, yes,” he said. “That is all very well — at Allt-nam-ba. 
It is very pretty — and Jane has done your hair very nicely this 
morning ’’ 

“ I have not had a glimpse of Jane this morning!” Yolande said, 
with a laugh. “Could I be so cruel? No. Mrs. Graiiam going 
ashore — and I to take Jane away? — how could I?” 

“ I don’t like the arrangement,” her father said, with a frown. 
“ Why should you not have the help of your own maid? But about 
the cap, Yolaude — look, these other ladies are dressed as if they were 
going to church. The cap would be very pretty at a garden party — 
at lawn tenuis — but I think ” 

“ Oh yes, I will put on a bonnet,” said Yolande, instantly. “ It 
is not to please Mrs. Graham— it is to please you — that I care for. 
One minute ” 

But who was this who intercepted her? Not the lazy 5mung fel- 
low who used to lounge about the decks in a shooting coat, with a 
cigarette scarcely ever absent from his fingers or lips; but a most 
elegant young gentleman in tall hat and frock coat, who was dressed 
with the most remarkable precision, from his collar and stiff necktie 
to his snow-white gaiters and patent-leather boots. 

“ Are you ready to go ashore. Miss Winterbourne?” said he, 
smoothing his gloves the while. “ My sister is just coming up.” 

“ In one minute,” she said; “ I am going for a bonnet, instead of 
Scotch cap ” 

“Oh, no,” he said, quickly; “please don’t. Please, we^ the 
cap. You have no idea how well it becomes you. And it would 
be so kind of you to pay a compliment to the Highlands— I think 
half the officers on board belong to the Seaforth Highlanders — and 
if we go to look at the Club ” 

“No, thank .vou,” she said, passing him with a friendly smile. 
“ I am not going en rnmndiere. Perhaps I will borrow the cap 
some other time — at Allt-nam-ba.” 

Mr. Winterbourne overheard this little conversation— in fact, the 
three of them were almost standing together; and wdieiher it was 
that the general excitement throughout the vessel had also affected 
him, or whether it was that the mere sight of all these people in 
ditferent costumes had made him suddenly conscious of what vvere 


\'OLA.J^DE. 


41 


their real relations — not their ship relations— it certainly startled him 
to hear the jmung Master of Lynn, apparently on the same familiar 
footing as himself, advise Yolande as to what became her. The 
next step was inevitable. He was easily alarmed. He recalled his 
friend Shorllands’ remark— which he had rather resented at the time 
— that a P. and O. voyage would marry off anybody who wanted to 
get married. He thought of Yolande; and he was stricken dumb 
with a nameless fear. Was she going away tiom him? Was some 
one else about to supplant him in her aUeciions? These two had 
been in a veiy literal sense all the world to each other. They had 
been constant companions. They knew few people; for he lived in 
a lonely, nomadic kind of way; and Yolande never seemed to care 
for any society but his own. And now was she going away from 
him? 

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had just arranged to 
take her awa}’’ into those wild solitudes in the Highlands, where tne 
Leslies would be their only neighbors. It seemed more and more 
inevitable. But why not? Why should not this happen? He 
nerved himself to face the worst. Yolande must marry some day. 
He had declared to John Shortlands that he almost wished she 
would many now. And how could she marry better? This young 
fellow was of good birth and education; well mannered and modest; 
altogether unexceptionable, as far as one could judge. And Mr. 
Winterboiirne had been judging unconsciously to himself. He had 
observed in the smoking room and elsewhere that young Leslie was 
inclined to be cautious about the expenditure of money— at cards or 
otherwise; but was not that rather a good trait? The family were 
not w’ealthy; the present Lord Lynn had been engaged all his life in 
slowly paying off the mortgages on the family estates; and no doubt 
this 3'oung fellow had been economically brought up. And then 
again— if Yolande w’ere to marry at all — would it not be better that 
she should be transferred to that distant and safe solitude? Yolande 
as the mistress of Lynn Towers — far away there in the seclusion of 
the hills — living a happy and peaceful life, free from scath and ter- 


It seemed not so terrible 



ror; that was 


now that Yolande should marry — at least — at least he would face 
the worst, and strive to look at the pleasanter aspect of it. She 
would be far awmy— and safe. 

These anxious, rapid, struggling thoughts had not occupied a 
couple of minutes. Yolande appeared, and he was almost afraid to 
regard her. Might there not be something of the future written in 
her face? Indeed, there was nothing there but a pleasant interest 
about the going on shore; and w’hen she had accepted a little nosegay 
that the Master of Lynn brought her, and pinned it on her dress, it 
was w’ith a smile of thanks, but with — to any unconcerned eyes— the 
very frankest indifference. 


The Grahams now announced themselves as ready; and the party 
descended the gangway into the boat — young Leslie preceding them, 
so as to hand Yolande into her place. 

“ Mr. Winterbourne,” said he, when they were all seated under the 
awning, and sailing away through the lappinggreen water, ” I hope 

you and your daughter will come and lunch with us ” 

” Oh, yes, of course,” said he; did they not make one party? 


42 


roLAi^DX 


“ But what 1 mean is this,” said the Master of Lynn, “ I am 
ing those Graham people their lunch — the cormorants! — and Lynn 
Towers is a long w’ay off; and 1 haven’t often the chance of play- 
ing host; and so I want you and Miss Winterbourne also to be my 
guests at the Hotel.” 

‘‘ Oh, thanks; very well,” said Yolande’s father, who had begun 
now to study this young man with the most observant but cautious 
sc^utin 3 ^ and was in a strange kind of waj" anxious to be pleased 
with him, 

” Why, 1 thought jmu were going to the Club they were all speak- 
ing of,” said Yolande, staringat nim, “ Captain Douglas told me so,” 

” Captain Douglas thinks he knows everything,” said young 
Leslie, good naturedly; ‘‘whereas he knows nothing, except how 
to play sixpenny loo.” 

‘‘ But we will all goto the Club, Miss Yolande,” said Colonel 
Graham, ‘‘ and 3 011 shall see the ballroom. Very fine. 1 don’t know 
what the high-art fellows nowadays would think of it. I used to 
think it uncommonlj’^ fine in bygone times. Gad, I’m not so fond of 
dancing now.” 

‘‘You can dance as well as ever you did, Jim, only you’re so 
lazy,” his wife said, sharply. 

‘‘You’ll have to give them a torchlight dance, A,rchie,” the 
Colonel continued, ‘‘ the first stag Mr. Wint rbourne kills. Miss 
Yolande would like to look at that. And you’re pretty good your- 
self at the sword dance. 1 once could do it, in a way 

” Jim, I won’t have you talk as if you were an old man,” his wife 
said, angrily. ‘‘I don’t care about you; I care about myself. I 
won’t have you talk like that. Everybody onboard thinks I’m forty.” 

‘‘ You’re not so young as you once were, you know, Polly.” 

But Mrs. Graham was much too radiant a coquette to be put out 
by any impertinent speech like that. She was too sure of herself 
She knew what her glass told her — and the half-concealed admiration 
of a whole shipful of people. She could afford to treat such speeches 
with contempt. And so they reached the shore. 

They refused to have a carriage; preferring rather to climb away 
up the steep steps, and away up the sleep litt’e streets, until they 
rfeached those high and narrow thoroughfares (with their pink and 
yellow houses, and pretty balconies, and green casements) that were 
so cool and pleasant to wander through. Sometimes the sun, thousrh 
shut out, sent a reflected light down into these streets in so peculiar 
a fashion that the pink fronts of the houses looked quite transparent; 
and not unfrequenlly, at the far end of the thoroughfare, the vista 
was closed in b^^ a narrow band of the deepest and inten.sest blue — 
the high horizon line of the distant sea. They went up to St. John’s 
bastion, to look at the wilderness of geraniums and lotus-trees. 
They went to St. John’s Church. They went to the telegraph office, 
where the Master of Lynn sent off this message: — 

Archibald Leslie. Ronald Macjpherson, 

Hotel, Malta. High Street, 

Inverness. 

Consider Allt-nam-ba, if unlet, taken by Winterbourne, M.P. 
Slagpool, Seven hundred fifty. Reply. 


YOLAHDE. 


43 

They went to see the Governor’s garden, and, in short, all tlie 
sights of the place; but what charmed the womenfolk most of all 
was. nat urall 3 ’', Hie great ballroom at the Union Club. As they stood 
in the big, empty, hollow-resounding place, Yolande said — 

“ Oh. yes, it is beautiful. It must be cool, with such a high roof. 
Papa, hav^e they as fine a ballroom at the Reform Club?” 

” The Reform Club?” her father repeated— rather vexed that she 
should make such a blunder. Of course not! Who ever heard of 
such a thing!” 

” Why not?” she said. ” Every one says this is a good club — and 
very English. Why not at the Reform Club? Is that why you 
have never taken me there?” 

‘‘ Well, it is; it is devilish English-looking,” said Colonel Graham 
to his wife, as they turned into the long and cool coffee-room, where 
there were rows of small tables all nicely furnished out. ‘‘ 1 like it. 
It reminds me of old times. I like to see the fellows in the old uni- 
forms; it makes one’s heart warm. Hanged if I don’t have a glass 
of sherr}' and bitters just to see if it tastes like the real thing— or a 
brandy and soda. It’s devilish like home. I don’t like being 
waited on by these Lascar-Portuguese-half nigger fellows. My 
chap said to me yesterday at breakfast when I asked for poached 
eggs — ‘ No go yei — when go bell me bring.’ And another fellow, 
when 1 asked for my bath, said, ‘ Hot water no go — when go hot 
water, me tell.’ By Gad, there’s old Munro — the fellow that nailed 
the Sepoys at Azimghur — he’s got as fat as a turkey-cock.” 

Indeed the members of the Club — mostly officers, apparentl}" — 
were now coming in to lunch; and soon Colonel Graham was fairly 
mobbed by old friends and ‘acquaintances, insomuch that it was with 
difficulty he was drawn away to the banquet that young Leslie — tak- 
ing advantage of the stay of the party in 8t. John’s Church— had 
had prepared for them at the hotel. It was a modest feast, but 
merry enough : and the table was liberally adorned with flowers, of 
which there is no lack in Malta. Colonel Graham was much excited 
with meeting those old friends, and had a great deal to say about 
them; his wife was glad to have a rest after so much walking; 
Yolande was naturally interested in the foreign look of the place and 
the people; and young Leslie, delighted to have the honor of being 
host, played that part with much tact and modesty and skill. 

To Mr. Winterbourne it was strange. Yolande seemed to half be- 
long to those people already. Mrs. Graham appeared to claim her 
as a sister. On board ship these things were not so noticeable; for 
of course they met at meals; and the same groups that were formed 
at table had a tendency to draw together again on deck or in the 
saloon. But here was this small party cut off from all the rest of 
the passengers; and they were entirely on the footing of old friends; 
ana the Master of Lynn’s anxiety to please Yolande was most marked 
and distinct. On board ship it would scarcely have been noticed; 
here it was obvious to the most careless eye. And yet when he 
turned to Yolande herself, who, as might have been imagined, ought 
to have been conscious that she was being singled out for a very 
special attention and courtesy, he could read no such consciousness 
in her face— nothing but a certain pleasant friendliness, and in- 
difference. 


44 


YOLAKDE. 


A-fter luncheon they went away for a long drive to see more 
sights; and in the afternoon returned to the hotel, before going on 
board. Young Leslie was thinking of leaving instructions that the 
telegram from Inverness should be forwarded on to Cairo when, 
fortunately, it arrived. It read curiously — 


Ronald MacPherson, 

Estate and Colliery Agent. 
High Street, 

Inverness. 

Right. 


The Honor (Me the Master of Lynn, 
Of the P. and 0. Company’s 

Steamship 

The Hotel, Malta. 


** Now, what on earth— oh, I see!'’ exclaimed the recipient of 
this telegram, after staring at it in a bewildered fashion for a mo- 
ment. “ 1 see. Here is a most beautiful joke. MacPherson has 
wanted to be clever. Has found out that, telegraphing to Malta is 
pretty dear; thinks he will make the message as short as pos- 
sible — but will take it out in the address. I am certain that is it. 
He has fancied the address was free, as in England; and he has sent 
bis clerk to the office. Won’t the clerk catch it when he goes back 
and says what he has paid! That is real Highland shrewdness. 
Never mind; you have got the shooting. Mr. Winterbourne.” 

‘‘ I am glad of that,” said Yolande’s father, rather absently; for 
now, when he thought of the solitudes of Allt-nam-ba, it was not of 
stags or grouse or mountain hares that he was thinking. 

They got on board again, and almost immediately went below to 
prepare for dinner, for the decks were still dirty with the coal dust. 
And that night they were again at sea— far away in the silences; and 
a small group of them were up at the end of the saloon, practicing 
glees for the next grand conceit. Mr. Winterbourne was on deck, 
walking up and down, alone; and perhaps trying to fancy how it 
would be with him when he was really left alone, and Y'olande en- 
tirely away from him, with other cares and occupations. And he 
was striving to convince himself that that would be best; that he 
would himself feel happier if Yolande’s future in life were secured; 
if he could see her the contented and proud mistress of Lynn Tow- 
ers. Here, on board this ship, it might seem a hard thing that they 
should separate, even though the separation were only a mitigated 
one; but if they v’ere back in England again, he knew those terrible 
fears would again beset him, and that it would be the first wish of 
his heart that Yolande should get married. At Lynn Towers he 
might see her sometimes. It was remote, and quiet, and safe; some- 
times Yolande and he would walk together there. 

Meanwhile, down below tbey had finished their practicing; and 
the Master of Lynn was idly turning over a book of glees. 

” Polly,” said he to his sister, ” I like that one as well as any — 1 
mean the words. Don’t you think they apply very well to Miss 
■Winterbourne?” 

His sister too^ the book, and read Sheridan’s lines — 


Marked you her eye of heavenly blue? 
Marked you her cheek of roseate hue? 
That eye in liquid circles moving; 

That cheek abashed at man’s approving ; 
The one love’s arrows darting round. 

The other blushing at the wound. 


YOLANDE, 45 

Well, (he music of this dee is charming; and the words ore well 
enough; but when the Master of Lynn ventured the opinion that 
these were a good description of Yolande, he never made a worse 
shot in his life. Yolande “ abashed at man’s approving?” She let 
no such non^'ense get into her head. She was a little too proud for 
that — or perhaps only careless and indifferent. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

RECONNAISSANCES. 

‘‘I don’t believe in any such simplicity. Men may; women 
don’t. It sterns to me more the simplicity of an accomplished flirt.” 

The speaker was Mrs. Graham; and she spoke with an air of re- 
sentment. 

” You don’t know her!” said the Master of Lynn, with involun- 
tary admiration. 

” 1 suppose you think you do,” his sister said, with a” superior ” 
smile. And then— perhaps she was tired of hearing so much in 
praise of Yolande; or perkaps she wished her brother to be cautious; 
or perhaps she was merely gratuitously malicious— she said: ‘‘I’ll 
tell you what it is— I should not be at all surprised to hear that she 
was engaged, and has been engaged for any length of time.” 

He was struck silent by this fierce suggestion; it bewildered him 
for a second or two. Then he exclaimed — 

‘‘ Oh, that is absurd — perfectly absurd! I know she is not!” 

, ” It would be a joke,” continued his sister, with a sardonic smile, 
‘‘if that were the explanation of the wonderful friendliness that 
puzzles you so much. If she is engaged, of course she has no fur- 
ther care or embarrassment. Everything is settled. She is as frank 
with Dick as with Tom and Harry. Oh, Archie, that would be a 
joke — how Jim would laugh at you!” 

‘‘ But it isn’t true,” he said, angrily, “ and you know it isn’t. It 
is quite absurd.” 

” I will find out for you, if you like,” hissisfer said, calmly; and 
here the conversation ceased, for Colonel Graham at this moment 
came along to ask his brother-in-law for a light. 

They were again away from the land — perhaps even forgetful that 
such a thing existed. It seemed quite natural to get up morning 
after morning to find around them the same bright, brilliant monot- 
ony of white-crested blue seas and sunlit decks and fair skies; and 
each day passed with the usual amusements, and then came the still 
moonlight night, with all its mysterious charm and loneliness-. It 
was a delightful life— especially for the Grahams and Winter- 
bournes, who were going nowhere in particular, but had come 
chiefly for the voyage itself. And it was a life the very small inci- 
dents of which excited interest, simply because people had plenty of 
time to consider them— and each other. 

There was no doubt that Yolande had become a pretty general 
favorite; for she found herself very much at home; and she put 
aside a good deal of that reserve which she assumed in traveling oii 
land. These people could in no sense be considered strangers; they 


46 


YOLAIS^DE. 


were all too kind to her. The ship’s officers brought her the charts 
out of the chartroom, to show her how far the vessel had got on 
her course. The captain allowed her to go on the bridge, and gave 
her his own glass when a distant sail was to be seen. And the young 
soldiers, when they were not in the smoking-room, and when they 
were not picking up rope quoits for Mrs. Graham, had an e^^e on 
the many strayed birds tiuttering about, and when they could they 
caught one and brought it to Miss Winterbourne, who was glad to 
tak^^the wild-eyed fluttering wanderer down into the saloon and 
put its beak for a second or two into a glass of fresh water. The 
swallows were the most easily caught; they were either more ex- 
hausted or more tame than the quails and thrushes and ring-doves. 
Once or twice Yolaude herself caught one of these swallows; and 
the beautiful, bronze-blue creature seemed not anxious to get away 
from her hand. Mrs. Graham said it was too ridiculous to see the 
major of a Bighland regiment— -a man six feet twm in height, with 
a portentously grave face — screw^ his eyeglass into its place and set 
off to stalk a dead tired thrush, pursuing it along the awning and 
from boat to boat. But all the same, these warriors seemed pleased 
enough when they could bring to Yolande one of these trembling 
captives, and when she took the poor thing carefully into her 
hands, and looked up, and said, “ Oh, thank you!” It ought to 
be mentioned that the short upper lip of the girl, though it had the 
pathetic droop at the corners which has been mentioned— and which 
an artist friend of the writer says ought to have been described as 
Cupid’s bow being drawn slightly — lent itself very readily to a 
smile. 

Mrs, Graham watched for a chance of speaking to Yolande; and 
soon found it. She w'ent to the girl, who was standing by the rail 
of the hurricane-deck, and put her arm most affectionately round 
her, and said — 

“ My dear child, what are you staring into the sea for? Do you 
expect to see dolphins?” 

” I was wondering what made the water so blue,” said she, raising 
herself somewhat. “ It is not the sky. If you look at the water for 
awhile, and turn to the sky, the sky 'is a pale washed-out purple. 
What a wonderful blue it is, too; it seems to me twenty times more 
intense than the blue of the water along the Riviera,” 

” You have been along the Riviera?” 

” Oh, two or three times,” said Yolande. ” We always go that 
way into Italy.” 

‘‘ You must have traveled a great deal, from what I hear.” 

“Yes,” said Yolande, with a slight sigh, “I am afraid it is a 
great misfortune. It is papa’s kindness to me; but I am sorry. It 
takes him away. At one time he said it w^as my education; but now 
we both laugh at that~for a pretense. Oh I assureyou we are such 
bad travelers— we never go to see anything that we ought to see. 
When we go to Venice, we go to the lido, and the sands— but to the 
churches?— no. In Egypt you will have to do all the sight-seeing; 
you will find us— oh, so very lazy that you cannot imagine it; you 
will go to see the tombs and the inscriptions, and papa and I, we 
will take a walk and look at the river until you come back.” 

“ What a strange life to have led,” said her friend, who had her 


YOLINDE. 47 

own point of view. “ And among all your wanderings, did you 
never meet the one who is to be nearer and dearer ” 

“ Nearer and dearer?” said Yolande, looking puzzled. ” Papa is 
neaicr and dearer to me than any one or anything — naturally. That 
is why wo are always satissfied to be together; that is what makes our 
traveling so consoling— no — so— so contented.” 

” But wiiat I mean is — now forgive me, dear Y^olande — you know 
I’m a very impertinent woman — I mean, in all your travels have 
you never came across some one whom you would care to many? 
Indeed, indeed, you must have met many a one who would have 
been glad to cany you off— that 1 can tell you without flattery.” 

” Indeed, not any one!” said Y’olande, with a perfectly frank 
laugh. ” Tlmt is not what I would ever think of. That is not 
what I wish.” i\nd then she added with an air of sadness: ” Per- 
haps lam never to have what I wish — it is a pity — a misfortune.” 

” What is it, then, dear Y^olande? In your father’s position 1 
don’t see what there is in the world that he could not get for you. 
T'oii see I am curious — I am very impertinent — but 1 should like to 
treat you like my own sister— 1 am not quite old enough to act as a 
mother to you, for all that Jim says.” 

” Oh, it is simple enough— it does not sound difficult,” Y'olande 
said. ” Come, we will sit down, and 1 w’ill tell you.” 

They sat down in two deck-chairs that happened to be handy, and 
Mrs. Graham look the girl s hand in hers; because she really liked 
her, although at times human nature broke down, and she thought 
her husband was carrying his praises of Yolande just a trifle too far. 

” When 1 have met English ladies abroad,” said Yolande, ” and 
the one or two families 1 know in London, it was so nice to hear 
them talk of their home— perhaps in the country, where everyone 
seemed to kno’w them, and tiiey had so many interests, so many 
affections. They were proud of that. It w’as a tie. They were not 
merely wanderers. Even your brother, dear Mrs. Graham, he has 
filled me with env}^ of him, when he has told me of the district 
around Lynn 'J’owers, and seeming to know every one. and always 
settled there, and capable to make friends for a lifetime, not for a 
few hours in a hotel. What place do I really know in the world — 
what place do they really know^me?— a little village in France that 
you never heard of 1 And 1 am English! 1 am not French. Ah, 
yes, that is what I have many a time wished— that my papa would 
have a house like others— in the country?— yes — or in the town? — 
yes — what does that matter to me? And 1 should make it pretty for 
him; and he would have a home — not a hotel; also 1 have thought 
of being a secretarv to liim, but perhaps that is too much beyond 
what is possible. Do you think I can imagine anything about mar- 
rying when this far more seriotis thing is what 1 wish? Do you 
think that any one can be nearer and dearer to me than the one who 
has given m*e all his affection, all his life, who thinks only of me, 
who has sacrificed already far too much for me? Who else has 
done that for me? And you would not have me ungrateful? Be- 
sides, also, it is selfish. 1 do not like the society of any one nearly 
so much; why should I change for a stranger? But it is not nec- 
essary to speak of that— it is a stupidity— but now I haveTold you 
what I wish for, if it were possible.” 


48 


YOLANDE. 


Mrs. Graham was convinced. There was no affection here. The 
Master of Lynn had no rival, at all events. 

“ Do you know, my dear child, you talk very sensibly,” said she, 
palling her hand. “And I don’t see why your papa should not 
give you two homes — one in the country and one in town— for 1 am 
sure every one says he is wealthy enough. But perhaps this is the 
reason. Of course you will marry— no, stay a minute — 1 tell you, 
you are sure to marry. Why, the idea! Well, then, in that case it 
might be better for your papa not to have a household to break up; 
he could attend to his Parliamentary duties very well if he lived in 
the Westminster Palace Hotel, for example, and be free from 
care ” 

Yolande’s mouth went very far down this time. 

“Yes, that may be,” she said. “Perhaps that will happen. 1 
know I have taken aw^ay too much of his time; and once, twice 
perhaps, we have had jokes about my being married; but this was 
the end, that when my papa tells me to marry, then 1 will marry. I 
must go somewhere. If I am loo much of a burden — and sometimes 
I am very sad and think that I am — then he must go and brins: some 
one to me, and say, ‘ Many him.’ And I will marr}’ him — and hate 
him.'* 

“ Gracious heavens, child, what are you saying! Of course, if 
ever you should marry, you will choose for yourselif.” 

“It is not my affair,” said Yolande, coldly. “If I am to go 
away, I will go awa.y; but 1 shall hate the one that takes me away.” 

“ Yolande,” said her friend, seriously, “ you are making it rather 
hard for your father. Perhaps I have no right to interfere; but you 
have no mother to guide you; and reall}" you talk such— such ab- 
surdity ” 

“But how do I make it hard for my papa?” said Yolande, 
quickly looking up with an anxious glance. “ Am I a constraint? 
Do you think there is something he would do? Am I in his way — a 
burden to him*^” 

“ No, no, no,” said the other, good-humoredly. “ Why should 
you think any such thing? I was only referring to the madness of 
your own fancy. The idea that your father is to choose a husband 
for you— whom you will hate Now suppose that you are a burden 
— 1 believe I informed you that 1 was a very impertinent w'oman, 
and now I am an intermeddler as well— suppose that your father 
would like to take a more active part in public affairs, and that he 
knows you are opposed to the very notion of getting married. He is 
in a very painful dilemma. He won’t tell you that you ars rather 
interfering with his Parliamentary work. And most assuredly he 
won’t recommend you to marry any one, if you are going to marry 
with a deadly grudge against your husband.” 

Yolande thought over this for some minules. 

“ I suppose it is true,” she said, rather sadly. “ He wmuld not 
tell me. He has said 1 have kept him away from the House of Com- 
mons; but then it was only amusement and joking. And 1 — I also 
—have many a time been fearing it was not right he should waste so 
much care on me, when no one else does that with their daughters. 
Why does he go to the House? Partly because it is his duty to 
work for the country— to see that it is well governed— partly to make 


YOLANDE. 


49 

fame, which is a noble ambition. And then I interfere. Rethinks 
I am not quite well, when i am quite well. He thinks 1 am dull. 
When I ;im not dull — when 1 would rather read his speech in the 
newspapers than go anywhere. But always the same — I must go 
and be amused; and Parliament and everything is left behind. It 
was not so bad when 1 was at the Cliateau; when I was learning; 
but even then he was always coming to see me and to take me away. 
And when I used to say * Papa, why don’t you take me to England? 
I am English; 1 want to see my own country, not other countries;’ 
it was always ‘ You will see enough of England by and by.' But 
when I go to England, look! it is the same — always away again, 
except a week or two perhaps, at Oallands Park, or a day or two in 
London; and 1 have not once been to the House of Commons, where 
every one goes, and even my papa is vexed that I do not know they 
have not a ballroom at the Reform Club.” 

” Well, dear Yolande, you have led a queer sort of life; but. after 
all, was not your father wise? lie could not have a household with 
a schoolgirl to look after it. But now I can see that all this will be 
changed; and you will have no more fears that ^’^ou are a restraint. 
Of course you will marry; and you will be very happy; and your 
papa will have your home to go to at the Easter holidays; and you 
will go up to town to hear him speak in the House; and he will 
have a fair chance in politics. So that is all arranged; and you are 
not to have any wild or fierce theories. There goes the dressing-bell 
—come along!” 

Day after day passed without change. The young blaster of Lynn 
had been reassured by his sister; and very diligently, and with a 
Jacob-like modesty and patience he strove to win Yolande’s regard; 
but althouirh she was always most friendly toward him and pleased 
to chat with him. or walk the hurricane-deck with him, she seemed 
to treat him precisely as she treated any of the others. If there was 
one whom she especially favored, it was Colonel Graham, whose 
curt, sardonic speeches amused her. 

At last they arrived at Port Said, that curious, rcctangular-street- 
ed, shanty-built place, that looks like Cheyenne painted pink and 
white; and of course there was much wonder and interest in behold- 
ing land again, and green water, and the swarming boats with their 
Greeks and Maltese and Negroes and Arabs, all in their various cos- 
tumes. But it was with a far greater interest that they regarded the 
picture round them when the vessel had started again, and was 
slowly and silently stealing away into the wide and lonely desert 
land, by means of this water highway. The Suez Canal had been 
rather a commonplace phrase to Yolande; mixed up with monetary 
affairs mostly; and suggestive of machinery. But all this was 
strange and new; and the vessel was going so slowly that the engines 
were scarcely heard; she seemed to glide into this dream-world of 
silver sky and far-reaching wastes of yellow sand. It was so silent, 
and so wide, and so lonely. For the most part the horizon line was 
a mirage; and they watched the continual undulations of tne silver- 
white waves; and even the strange refiections of w'hat appeared to 
be islands; but here there was not even a palm to break the mono 
tony of the desert— only the little tamarisk bushes dotting the sand. 
From a marsh a red-legged flamingo rose, slowly wdnging its way to 


60 


YOLAKDE. 


the south. Then a string of camels came along with forward- 
stretching heads and broad, slow- pacing feet; the Bedouins either 
perched on the backs of the animals or striding through the sand by 
their side, their faces looking black in contrast to their white wide- 
flowing garments. And so they glided through the silent, gray, sil- 
ver world. 

The night saw another scene. They were anchored in another 
part of the canal, where the banks were hiffh and sleep; and the 
moonlight was surpassingly vivid. On one of these banks — it 
seemed a great mountain as it rose to the dark blue vault where the 
stars were — the moonlight threw the shadow of the riggitjgof the 
ship so sharply that every spar and rope was traced on the silver- 
clear sand. There was an almost oppressive silence in this desert 
solitude; adark animal that came along through the tamarisk-bushes 
— some said it was a jackal— disappeared up and over the sand- 
mountain like a ghost, iind in the midst of this weird cold moon- 
light and silence these people began to get up a dance after dinner. 
The piano was brought on deck from the saloon. The women folk 
had put on their prettiest costumes. There had been perhaps (so it 
was said) a little begging and half promising going on beforehand. 
The smoking room was deserted. From the supports of the awn- 
ings a number of large lanterns had been slung; so that when the 
ladies began to appear, and when the first notes of the music were 
heard, the scene was a very animated and pretty one; but so strange 
with the moonlit desert around. The Master of Lynn had got hold 
of Yolande— he had been watching for her appearance. 

“ 1 hope you wull give me a dance. Miss Winterbourne,” said he, 

” Oh, yes,, with pleasure,” said she, in the most friendly way. 

“There are no programmes, of course,” said he. “And one 
can’t make engagements; but I think a very good rule in a thing 
like this is that one should dance with one’s friends. For mvself, I 
don’t care to dance with strangers. It doesn’t interest me. 1 think 
when people form a party among themselves on board ship— well, I 
think they should keep to themselves ” 

“Oh, but that is very selfish, is it not?” Yolande said. “We 
are not supposed to be strangers with any one after being on board 
ship so long together ” 

“ Miss Winterbourne, may T have the pleasure of dancing this 
waltz with you?” said a tall, solemn man, with an eyeglass; and the 
next minute the Master of Lynn beheld Yolande walking toward 
that cleared space with Major Mackinnon, of the .Seaforth High- 
landers; and as to what he thought of the Seaforth Highlanders, 
and what he hoped would happen to them, from their Colonel down 
to their pipe-major, it is unnecessary to say anything here. 

But Yolande did give him the next dance, whiclf mollified him a 
little— not altogether, however, for it was only a square. 'Fhe next 
was a Highland JSchollischn; and by ill luck he took it for granted 
that Yolande, having been brought up in France, would know 
nothing about it, so he went away and sought out his sister. Their 
performance was the feature of the evening. No one else thought 
of interfering. And it was very cleverly, and prettily, and artisiic 
ally done; insomuch that a round of applause greeted them at the 
en^even from the young Highland officers, who considered that 


YOLANDE. 


51 


young Leslie might just as 'well have sought a partner elsewhere, 
instead of claiming his own sister. Immediately after the Master of 
Lynn returned to Yolande. 

“ Ah, that is very pretty,” she said. ” No wonder they approved 
you and clapped their hands. It is the most picturesque of all the 
dances— especially when there are only two, and you have the whole 
deck for display. In a ballroom, perhaps no.” 

” You must learn it, Miss Winterbourne, before you come north,” 
said he. ” We always dance it in the north.” 

“ Oh, but 1 know it very well.” said Yolande, quietly. 

” You?” said he in an injured way. ‘‘ Why didn’t you tell me? 
Do you think I wanted to dance with my sister and leave you here?” 

‘‘ But Mrs. Graham and you danced it so prettily — oh, very well, 
indeed ” 

There was somebody else approaching them now — for the lady at 
the piano had that instant begun another waltz. This was Captain 
Douglas, also of the Seaforth Highlanders. 

“Miss Winterbourne, if you are not engaged, will you give me 
this waltz?” 

Yolande did not hesitate. Why should she? She was not en- 
gaged. 

” Oh, yes, thanks,” said she, with much friendliness, and she rose 
and took Captain Douglas’s arm. 

But young Leslie; could not bear this perfidy, as he judged it. He 
would have no more to do with the dance, or with her. "Without a 
word to any one he went aw^ay to the smoking-room, and sat down 
there, savage and alone. He lit a cigar, and smoked vehemently. 

” Polly talks of men being bamboozled by women,” he was think- 
ing bitterly. ” She knows nothing about it. It is women who 
know nothing about women: they hide themselves from each other. 
But she was right on one point. That girl is the most infernal flirt 
that ever stepped the earth.” 

And still, far away, he could hear the sound of the music, and 
also the stranger sound — like a whispering of silken wings— of feet 
on the deck. He was angry and indignant. Yolande could not be 
blind to his constant devotion to her; and yet she treated him ex- 
actly as if he were a stranger- going otf with the firsf-comer! Sim- 
plicity! His sister was rigid — it was the simplicity of a first-class flirt. 

And still the waltz went on; and he heard the winnowing sound 
of the dancers’ feet; and his thoughts were bitter enough. He was 
only five-and-twenty : at that age, hopes and fears and disappoint- 
ments are emphatic and near; probably it never occurred to him to 
turn from the vanities of the hour, and from the petty throbbing 
anxieties and commonplaces of every- day life, to think of the awful 
solitudes all around him there — the voiceless, world-old desert, lying 
so dim and strange under the moonlight and the stars, its vast and 
mysterious heart quite pulseless and calm. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CLOUDS. 

Next morning, quite unconscious that she bad dealt any deadly 
injur}’^ to any one, Yolande was seated all by herself on the hurri 


YOLAI^DE. 


62 

cane-deck, idly and carelessly and happily drinking in fresh clear 
air and looking away over the wastes of golden sand to a strip of 
intense dark blue that was soon to reveal itself as the waters 
of a lake. She was quite alone. The second officer had 
brought her one of the ship’s glasses, and had then (greatly 
against his will) gone on the bridge again. The morning was fair 
and shining; the huge steamer was going placidly and noiselessly 
through the still water; if Yolande was thinking of anylhing it was 
probably that she had never seen her father so pleased and contented 
as on this long voyage; and perhaps she was wondering whether, 
after all, it might not be quite as ^Aell that he should gfve up Parlia- 
ment, so that they two might wander away through the world, 
secure in each other’s company. 

Nor was she aw^are that, at this precise moment, her future was 
being accurately arranged for her in one of the cabins below. 

“ I confess I don’t see where there can be the least objection,” 
Mrs. Graham was saying to her husband (who was still lying in his 
berth, turning over the pages of a novel), as she fixed a smart mob- 
cap on her short and prett}'^ curls. “ I have looked at it every way. 
Papa may make a fuss about Mr. Winterbourne’s politics; but there 
are substantia reasons why he should say as little as possible. Just 
think how he has worked at the improving of the estate— all his life 
—and with scarcely any money; and just fancy Archie coming in 
to complete the thing. 1 know what I would do. 1 would drain 
and plant the Rushen slopes; and build a nice lodge there; and then 
1 would take the sheep off Allt-naiu ba and make it a small for- 
est; and it would let for twice as much again. Oh. Jim, just fancy, 
if Archie were to be able to buy back Corrievreak!” 

Her husband flung the book aside, and put his hands under his 
head. His imagination was at work. 

“ If I were Archie,” he said, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, ‘‘ I 
would make Corrievreak the sanctuary; that’s what I would do. 
Then 1 would put a strip of sheep up the Glenbuie side to fence off 
Sir Jolm~do you see that, Polly? And then 1 would take the 
sheep off Allt-nam-ba, as you say, only I would add on 
Allt-nam-ba to Lynn. Do you see that? What made your 
grandfather part with Corrievreak I don’t know. Fancy having 
the sanctuary within two miles of a steamboat pier; it’s a standing 
temptation to all the poachers in the country. Now if you take in 
Allt-nam-ba; and make Corrievreak the sanctuary; and if you’d hold 
your hand for a year or two in the letting, you’d soon liave one of 
the best forests in Scotland. But letting is the mischief. Those 
fellows from the south shoot anything on four legs they can get at. 
Forty years ago the finest stags in Inverness shire were found round 
and about Corrievreak; the Fort Augustus lads knew that— they 
used to say. Oh, 1 quite agree with you. I think it would be an 
uncommon good match. And then Archie would have a house in 
town. I suppose; and they might put us up for a week or two in the 
season. Tit for tat’s fair play. He has the run of Inverstroy when 
there isn’t a bit of rabbit shooting left to him at Lynn.” 

” Well, but there’s just this, jmu know, Jim,” his wife said, with 
an odd kind of smile. ” We know very little about what kind of a 
girl she is — and Archie knows less than we do.” 


YOLAKDE. 


53 

“ Oh, she’s well enough,” said the stout soldier, carelessly. That 
was a subsidiary point. What his mind clearly grasped was the 
importance of having Corrievreak made the sanctuary of the deer 
forest. * 

‘‘ She is well enough, no doubt,” his wife said; and as she had 
finished her toilet she now stood and regarded him — wdth a demure 
kind of hesitation in her face, as if she were afraid to confess her 
thoughts, ” She is well enough. She has good manners. She is 
distinguished looking, for a girl of her age; and you know all the 
money in Slagpool wouldn’t induce papa to receive a dowdy daugh- 
ter-in-law. And she doesn’t flirt— unless— well, it’s just possible 
she knows that that indifference of hers is attractive to young men 
— it puls them on their mettle, and touches their vanity. But after 
all, Jim, we know very liltle about the girl. We don’t know what 
sort of a wife she would make. She has come through nothing; 
less than most girls; for she might as well have been in a convent as 
in that Ch§,teau. And of course she can’t expect life always to be as 
pleasant for her; and— and— s4ie has come through no crisis to show 
what kind of stuff she is made of; and we might all be mistaken ” 

” Oh, I see what you’re driving at,” her husband said, with just 
a touch of contempt. ” Don’t be alarmed; 1 dare say Archie isn’t 
anxious to marry a tragedy queen. 1 don’t see whv Miss Winter- 
bourne should be put to any fiery trial;, or should have to go 
through mortal agonies, any more than the majority of young 
women in exceptionally easy circumstances. And if she should, 1 
have no doubt she will show common sense; and men prefer com- 
mon sense to hysterics — a long way. 1 think she has common sense; 
and I don’t see why she and Archie shouldn’t marry, and have a 
pleasant enough time of it; and I suppose they will quarrel until 
one or other gets tired of quarreling, and refuses; and if they only 
have a tid}' little house about Bruton Street or Conduit Street, and a 
good cook, it will be very convenient for us. Now 1 wish to good- 
ness 3 0 u’d clear out, and let me get dressed.” 

The dismissal was summary; but pretty Mrs. Graham was a good- 
natured woman; and with much equanimity she left the cabin, 
made her way along the saloon, and up the companion way to the 
outer air. About the first person she ran against was her brother; 
and black thunder was on his face. 

“Where is Miss Winterbourne?” she said, inadvertently, and 
without reflecting that the question was odd. 

“ On the hurricane-deck,” said he. “ 1 dare say you will find 
half the officers of the ship round her.” 

There w^as something in his tone which caused his sister, with 
considerable sharpness, to ask him what he meant; and then out 
came the story of his wrongs. Now Mrs. Graham had not been too 
well pleased when her husband and everybody else sang the praises 
of Yolande to her; but no sooner was the girl attacked in this way 
than she instantly — and with a good deal of warmth — flew to her 
defense. What right had he to suppose that Miss Winterbourne 
ought to have singled him out as different from the others? Why 
should she not dance with whomsoever she pleased? If the ship’s 
officers showed her some little ordinary courtesies, why should she 


YOLA^ls^DE. 


54 

not be civil in return? What right of possession had he in her? 
What was he to her in any way whatever?” 

“ You said yourself she was a flirt,” her brother retorted. 

‘‘ I?” she said. “ I? I said nothing of the kind! I said that the 
preposteious innocence that you discovered in her was more like the 
innocence of a confirmed flirt. But that only shows me that you 
know nothing at all about her. To imagine that she should have 
kept all her dances for you -” 

” I imagine nothing of the sort,” he answered, with equal vehe- 
mence. ” But I imagined that as we were traveling together as 
friends, even a small amount of frieudliness might have been shown. 
But it is no matter ” 

“You are quite right, it is no matter,” she interrupted. ” I have 
no doubt Miss Winterbourne will find plenty to understand her 
character a little better than you seem to do. You seem to think 
that you should have everything— that everythijig should be made 
smooth and pleasant for you. I suppose, when you marry, you will 
expect yf*ur wife to go through life with her ballroom dress on. It 
isn’t her womanly nature that you will be thinking of; but wiiether 
she dresses well enough to make other women envious!” 

All this was somewhat incoherent; but there was a confused recol- 
lection in her brain of w hat she had been saying to her husband, and 
also, perhaps, a vague impression that these words were exculpating 
herself from certain possible charges. 

” You don’t consider whether a wmman is tit to stand the test of 
suffering and trouble; do you tiiiuk she is ahvays going to be a pretty 
doll to sit at the head of your dinner-table? You think you know' 
what Yolande’s nature is; but you know nothing about it. You 
know that she has pretty eyes, perhaps; and you get savage when 
she looks at any one else ” 

She turned quickly away: Yolande had at that moment appeared 
at the lop of the steps. And wdien she came down to the deck, 
Mrs. Graham caught her with both hands, and kissed her, and still 
held her hands and regarded her most affectionately. 

‘‘Dear Yolande, how well you are lookinir!” she exclaimed 
(meaning that her brother should hear; but he had walked away). 
‘‘ Dissipation does not harm yoti a bit. But indeed a dance on the 
deck of a ship is not like a dance in town ” 

Yolande glanced round; there was no one by. 

‘‘ Dear Mrs. Graham,” said she, ” I have a secret to ask you. Do 
you think your brother would do me a great favor? Dare 1 ask 
him?” 

” Why— yes— of course.” said the other, with some hesitation and 
a little surprise. ” Of course he w'ould be delighted.” 

She could see that Y'olande, at least, knew nothing of the fires of 
rage or jealousy she had kindled. . 

‘‘ I will tell you what it is, then. I wish my papa to think that 1 
can manage- oh. everything!— when we go to the house in the 
Highlands. I wish that he may have no trouble or delay; that 
everything should be quite ready and quite right. Always he has 
said, ‘ Oh. you are a child; why do you w^ant a house? Why should 
you have vexation?’ But. dear Mrs. Graham. I do not mind the 
trouble at all; and 1 am flllqd with joy when 1 think of the time X 


YOLAXDE. 


55 


am to go to the shops in Inverness; and papa will see that I can 
remember everything that is wanted; and he will have no bother at 
all; and he will see that I can look after a house, and then he will 
not be so afraid to take one in Londun or the country, and to have a 
proper home, as every one else has. And this is what I would ask 
of your brother, if he will be so very kind; he will be at Inverness 
before any of us, I suppose?” 

” No doubt; but why should you look so far ahead, Yolande, and 
trouble yourself?” 

” it IS no trouble; it is a delight. You were speaking of the car- 
riage we should want and the horses, to drive between Allt-nam-ba 
and the steamboat pier. Now all the other things that I have made 
a list of ” 

” Already?” 

‘‘ When you were so good as to tell me them, I put them down on a 
sheet of paper — it is safer; but the carriage; do you think I might 
ask your brother to hire that for us for the three months? Then 
when papa goes to Inverness, there will be no bother or waiting; 
everything in readiness; the carriage and horses engaged; the dogs 
sent on before; the cook at the lodge, with luncheon ready, or din- 
ner, if it is late; all the bedroom things nicely aired; all right — 
everything right. Do you not think 1 might ask Mr. Leslie? Do 
you think he would be so kind?” 

” Oh, I am sure he would b? delighted,” said Mrs. Graham (with 
some little misgiving about Archie’s existing mood). ” I fancy he 
has promised to get your papa a couple of ponies for the game pan- 
niers; and he might as well get you a dog-cart at the same time. I 
should say a four-wheeled dog-cart and one stout serviceable horse 
would be best for you; with perhaps a spring cart and an additional 
pony — to trot in with the game to the steamer. But Archie will tell 
you. It sounds so strange to talk about such things — here. Jim 
and I had a chat about the Highlands this very morning.” 

” 1 v*ill speak to your brother after breakfast, then.” 

But after breakfast, as it turned out, the Master of Lynn was 
nowhere to be found. Yolande wondered that he did not as usual 
come up to the hurricane-deck to play ” Bull,” or have a promenade 
with her; but thought he was perhaps writing letters in the saloon, 
to be posted that night at Suez. She did not like to ask; she only 
waited. She played “ Bull ” with her father; and got sadly beaten. 
She had a smart promenade with Colonel Graham, who told her 
some jungle stories; but she was thinking of the Highlands all the 
time. She began to be impatient; and set to work to devise letters, 
couched in such business phraseology as she knew, requesting a firm 
of livery-stable keepers to stale their terms for the hire of a dog-cart 
and a horse for three months, the wages of the groom included. 

There was no need to hurry. There had been some block in the 
Canal; and the huge bulk of the ship was now lying idly in the 
midst of the Greater Bitter Lake. All around them was the wide 
plain of dazzling blue-green water; and beyond that the ruddy 
brown strip of the desert quivered in the furnace-like heat; while 
overhead shone the pale clear sky, cloudless and breathless. Yo-. 
lande, as usual, wore neither hat nor bonnet; but she was less reck- 
less in venturing from under shelter of the awnings. And some of 


YOLAKDE. 


56 

the old Aui^lo-Indians were hoping that the punkah-wallahs would 
he set to work at dinner-time. 

The Master of Lynn had not shown up at breakfast; but he made 
his appearance at lunch; and he greeted Yolande with a cold “ Good 
morning ” and a still colder bow^ Y'olande, in truth, did not notice 
anv change in his manner, at first; but by and by she could not fail 
to perceive that he addressed the whole of his conversation to Colo- 
nel Graham, and that he had not a single word for her, though he 
was sitting right opposite to her. Well, she thought, perhaps this 
question as to" whether the}" were io get through to Suez that even- 
ing was really very important. It did not much matter to her. She 
was more interested in Inverness than in Suez; and among the most 
prized of her possessions was a long list of things necessary for a 
shooting-lodge, apart from the supplies which she was to send from 
the Army and Navy Stores. She felt she was no longer a school- 
girl; not even a useless and idle wanderer. Her father should see 
what she could do. Was he aware that she knew that ordinary 
blacking was useless for shooting-boots; and that she had got “ dub- 
bing ” down in her list? 

“ Archie,” said Mrs. Graham to her brother, the first time she got 
hold of him after lunch; “you need not be rude to Miss Winter- 
bourne.” 

“ 1 hope I have not been,” said he, somewhat stiffly. 

“ You treated her as if she were an absolute stranger at lunch. 
Not that I suppose she cares. But, for your own sake, you might 
show better manners,” 

“ 1 think you mistake the situation,” said he, with apparent indif- 
ference. “ ‘ Do as you’re done by ’ is a very good motto. It is for 
her to say whether we are to be friends, acquaintances, or strangers; 
and if she chooses to treat you on the least-favored-nation scale, 1 
suppose you’ve got to accept that. It is for her to choose. It is a 
free couQtry.” 

“ I think you are behaving abominably. I suppose you are jeal- 
ous of those young officers, men who are not in the army always are; 
they know women like a man who can fight ” 

“ Fight! Smoke, cigarettes and play sixpenny Nap, jmu mean! 
That’s about all the fighting they’ve ever done!” 

“ Do you say that about Jim?” said the young wife, with a flash 
of indignation in her eyes “ MJiy ” 

“ I wasn’t aware that Graham was a candidate for Miss Winter- 
bourne’s favurs,” said he. 

“ Well, now,” she said, “ you are making a fool of yourself, all 
to no purpose. If you are jealous of them, won’t you be rid of the 
whole lot of them to-night, supposing we get to Suez? And we 
shall be all by ourselves after that; and I am sure I expected we 
should make such a pleasant and friendly party.” 

“ But I am quite willing,” said he. “If I meet Miss Winter- 
bourne oil terms of her own choosing, surely that is only leaving her 
the liberty she is entitled to. There is no quairel, Polly. Don’t be 
aghast. If Miss Winterbourne wishes to be friendly, good and well; 
if not, good and better. No bones will be broken.” 

“ I tell 5"ou this, at least,” said his sister, as a parting warning or 
entreaty, “ that she is perfectly unconscious of having given you 


YOLAKDE. 


67 

any oil'cnse. She Las been anxious to speak to you all day, to ask 
you for a favor. She wants you to hire a dog cart and aspiing-cart 
for them, when you go to Inverness. If she thought there was any- 
thing (he matter, would she ask a favor of you?” 

“There is nothing the matter,” he rejoined, with perfect 
equanimity. “ And lam quite willing to hire any number of dog- 
carts for her— when she asks me.” 

But, oddly enough whether it was that Yolande had detected 
something unusual in his manner, or whether that item in her list of 
preparations had for the moment escaped her memory, or whether 
it was that the ship had again started, and everybody was eagerly 
looking forward to reaching Suez that night, nothing further was 
then said of the request that Yolande had intended to make. In- 
deed, she had but little opportunity of speaking to him that after- 
noon; for most of her time was taken up in finally getting ready for 
quitting the big steamer, and in helping Mrs. Graham to do likewise. 
"When they did reach Suez, it was just dinner-time, and that meal 
was rather hurried over; for there w'ere many good-bys to be said, 
and people could be got at more easily on deck. 

The clear, hot evening was sinking into the sudden darkness of 
the Egyptian night when the Grahams and YT'interbournes got into 
the railw^ay-carriage that was to take them to the hotel; and a whole 
crow'd of passengers had come ashore to bid them a last good-by, 
amongst them notably the young Highland oflicers. 

“ Lucky beggars!” said Colonel Graham, rather ruefully. “ Don’t 
you wish you were going out, Polly? Wouldn’t you like to be 
going out again?” 

“ Not I. Think of dear Baby, Jim?” 

“By Jove!” said he, “if Colin Mackenzie were here with his 
pipes to play The Barren Bocks of Aden I believe I’d go. I believe 
nothing could keep me.” 

And so they bade good-by to those boys; and Mrs. Graham and 
Yolande found themselves overladen with fruit and flowers when the 
train started. They were tired after so much excitement; and very 
soon went to bed after reaching the hotel. 

The next morning they set out for Cairo; the Master quite courte- 
ous, in a reserved kind of way; his sister inwardly chafing; Yolande 
perhaps a trifle puzzled. Colonel Graham and 5lr. Winterbourne, 
on the other hand, knowung nothing of these subtle matters, were 
wholly engrossed by the sights without. For though at first there 
was nothing but the vast monotony of the Desert — a blazing stretch 
of sun-brown, wuth perhaps, now and again, a string of camels look- 
ing quite black on the horizon line — that in time gave way to the 
wide and fertile plains of the Nile valley. Slowdy enough the train 
made its way through these teeming plains, with all their strange 
features of Eastern life— the mud-built villages among the palms; 
herds of buffaloes coming down to wallow in the river; oxen 
trampling out the corn in the open; camels slowly pacing alon^ in 
Indian file or here and there tethered to a tree; strange birds flying 
over the interminable breadths of golden grain. And, of course, 
when they reached Cairo, that wonderful city was still more bewil- 
dermg to European eyes— the picturesque forms and brilliant cos- 
tumes; the gayly caparisoned donkeys, ridden by veiled women, 


58 


YOLANDE. 


whose black eyes gleamed as they passed; the barc-leirged runner, 
with his long wand clearing the way for his master on horseback; 
the swarthy Arabs leading their slow-moving camels; and side by 
side with the mosques and minarets and Moorish houses, the French- 
looking ca^es and shops, to say nothing of the French looking pub- 
lic gardens, with the European servant-maids and childien listening 
to tinkling music from the latest Parisian comic opera. 

Then they got them to a large hotel, frontmg these public gardens, 
the spacious hall and corridors of which were oratefully cool; while 
outside there was such a mass of verdure — flowering shrubs and 
palms, wide-leaved bananas, and here and there a giant eucalyptus 
— as was exceedingly pleasant to eyes long accustomed to only the 
blue of the sea and the yellow-white of the deck. Moreover, they 
were in ample time for i\\Qtabl6 d'hote : and every one, after the dust 
and heat, was glad to have a thorough change of raiment. 

When the guests assembled in the long and lofty dining-saloon 
(there were not many, for most of the spring tourists had already 
left, while many of the European residents in Cairo had gone away, 
anticipating political troubles), it was clear that Mrs. Graham and 
her younger companion had taken the opportunity of donning a 
sb re toilet. Mrs. Graham’s costume was certainly striking; it was 
a deep crimson, of some richly brocaded stuff; and she had some 
red flowers in her black hair. Yolande’s was simpler the gown a 
muslin of white or nearly white; and the only color she wore was a 
bit of light salmon-colored silk that came round her neck, and was 
fastened in a bow in front. She had nothing in her hair; but the 
light falling on it from above was sufficient, and even glorious, 
adornment. For jewelry she had twm small earrings, each com- 
posed of minute points of pale turquois; perhaps these only served 
to show more clearly the exquisite purity of her complexion, wmere 
the soft oval of the cheeks met the ear. 

“ By heavens,” the Master of Lynn said to himself, the moment 
he had seen her come in at the wide door, ” that girl is the most 
beautiful creature 1 have ever seen!” 

He was startled into renewed admiration of her. He could not 
keep his eyes away from her; he found himself listening with a 
quick sympathy and approval when she spoke; and as her face was 
all Jit up with excitement and gladness because of the strange things 
she had seen, he followed her varying expressions, and found him- 
self being helplessly drawn under a witchery wffiicli he could not, 
and did not strive much to, withstand. She* spoke mostly— and she 
was pleasantly excited ana talkative this evening — to her father and 
to Mrs. Graham; but sometimes, perhaps inadvertently* she glanced 
his way as she spoke, and then he eagerly agreed with what she was 
saying, before he knew what it was. She. at least, had no covert 
quarrel, with him or with any one else. Delight shone in her eyes. 
When she laughed it was like music. Even her father thought that 
she was looking unusually bright and happy; and so that made him 
very contented too; but his satisfaction took the form of humorous 
grumbling; and he declared that he didn’t know what she w'as made 
of — that she should be making merry after the long day’s heat and 
dust, that had nearly killed everyone else. 

After dinner they all flecked into the reading-room, anxious tq 


\OLAKt)E. 


59 


have a look at the English papers — all except the Master of Lynn, 
who left the hotel, and was absent for a little time. When he re- 
turned he went into the reading room, and (with a certain timidity) 
went up to Yolande. 

“ Miss Winterbourne,” said he, nf>t very loudl}', ” wouldn’t it be 
pleasanter for you to sit outside and see the people passing? It is 
very interesting; and they are playing music in the gardens. It is 
much cooler out of doors.” 

” Oh, yes,” said Yolande, without the least hesitation, and instantly 
she rose and walked out. just as she was, on to the terrace, he mod- 
estly attending her. He brought her a chair; and she sat down by 
the -railings, to watch the picturesque crowd. She spoke to him just 
in her usual way. 

” Miss Winterbourne,” said he, at length, ” I have got you a little 
case of attar of roses; will you take it? When you get home, if you 
put it in your wardrobe, it will last a Jong time; and it is sure to 
remind you of Cairo.” 

‘‘ When I get h(>me?” she repeated, rather sadly. “ I have no 
home. 1 do not understand it. I do not understand why my papa 
should not have a home, as other people have.” 

” Well, then, will you take it to Allt-nam ha?” said he. ” That 
will be your home for awhile.” 

At Ihe mere mention of the place her face brightened up. 

” Oh, yes,” she said, in the most friendly way, ” that will indeed 
be a home for us for awhile. Oh, thank you — it is very kind of 
you; I shall prize it very much ” 

” And Polly was saying you wanted me to take some commissions 
for you to Inverness,” said he, abasing himself to the uttermost. 
” 1 should be awfully glad. I should be delighted ” 

” Oh, will you?” she said — and she rewarded him with an upward 
glance of gratitude that drove Cairo, and Inverness, and dog-carts, 
and everything else clean out of his head, ‘‘And you are not 
anxious to read the newspapers?” 

‘‘ No— not at all.” 

‘‘ Then will you sit down and tell me a little more about Allt-nam- 
ba? Ah, you do not know how I look forward to it. It is only for 
three months, still it is a home, as you say— all to ourselves; and my 
papa and I have never been together like" that before. I am so glad 
to think of it; and I am frightened, too, in case 1 do anything 
wrong; but your sister has been very kind to me. And there is an- 
other thing — if I make mistakes at the beginning — well, 1 believe 
my papa does not know how to be angry with me.” 

‘‘ Well, 1 should thiidt not — I should think not, indeed!” said he, 
as if it were quite an impossible thing for anybody to be angry with 
Yolande. 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE NIGHT. 

He had at last discovered an easy way of gaining her favor. She 
was so anxious to prove to her father that she was a capable house 
mistress that she was profoundly grateful for any hint that might 


60 


YOLXNDE. 


help; and she spared neither time nor trouble in acquiring the most 
minute information. Then all this had to be done in a more or less 
secret fashion. She wished the arrangements at the shooting-lodge 
to be something of a surprise. Her father, on getting up to Inver- 
ness-shire was to find everything in perfect order, then he would see 
whether or not she was fit to manage a house. She had even decided 
(after serious consultation with the Master of Lynn) that when the 
gillies went up the hill with the shooting pa i ty, she would give them 
their lunch rather than the meaner allernntive of a shilling apiece; 
and when the Master suggested that oatcake and cheese were quite 
sufficient for that, she said no — that, as her father, she knew, would 
not have either whisky or beer about the place, she would make it 
up to the men in giving them a good meal. 

This decision was arrived at, of all places in the world, in the gim- 
crack wooden building that Ismail had put up at the foot of the 
Great Pyramid for the reception of his guests. The Grahams and 
Winterbournes had, as a matter of course, driven out to see the 
Pyramids and the Sphinx; but when there was a talk of their climb- 
ing to the top of the Great Pyramid, Yolande flatly refused to be 
hauled about by the Arabs; so that Mrs. Graham (who had her little 
ambitions) and her husband and Mr. Winterbourne started by them- 
selves, leaving the Master of Lynn, who eagerly accepted the duty, 
to keep Yolande company. And so these two were now sitting well 
content in this big, bare, cool aDarlment, the chief ornament of which 
was a series of pictures on the wall— landscapes, in fact, so large 
and wild and vehement in color that one momentarily expected to 
hear a sharp whistle, followed by carpenters rushing in to run them 
off the stage. 

“ I suppose. Miss Winterbourne,” said he (it was an odd kind of 
conversation to take place at the foot of the Great Pyramid), ” your 
father would like to kill a few red-deer while he is at Allt nam-ba?” 

” Oh, yes; I know he is looking forward to that.” 

‘‘ Do you think,” said he, with a peculiar smile, " that it would 
be very wicked and monstrous if I were to sacrifice my father’s in- 
terests to your father’s interests? I should think not, myself. There 
are two fathers in the case; what one loses the other gains.” 

” I do not understand you,” Yolande said. 

” Well, this is the point. What deer may be found in the Allt- 
nam-ba gullies will most likely go in from our forest. Sometimes 
they cross from Sir John’s; but I fancy our forest contributes most 
of them; they like to nibble a little at the bushes for a change; and, 
indeed, in very wild weather they are sometimes driven down fiom 
the forest to gk shelter among the trees. Oh, don’t you know?” he 
broke in, noticing some expression of her eyes. ” There are no trees 
in a deer-forest— none at all — except perhaps a few stunted birches 
down in the conies. Well, you see, as the deer go in from our 
forest into your gullies, it is our interest that they should be driven 
out again, and if is your interest that they should stay. And 1 don’t 
think they will stay if there is not a glass of whisky' about the place; 
that was a hint 1 meant to give you, Miss Winterbourne.” 

” But 1 don’t understand yet.” said Yolande, ” Whisky?” 

” All your father’s chances at the deer will depend ou the good 
will of the shepherds. The fact is we put .some sheep on Allt-nam- 


YOLAKDE. 


61 

ba, mostly as a fence to the forest; there is no pasturage to speak of; 
but, of course, the coming and going of the shepherds and the dogs 
drive the deer back. Now supposing— just listen to me betraying 
my father’s interests and my own— supposing there is an occasional 
glass of whisky about, and that the shepherds are on very friendly 
terms with you; then not only are they the first to know when a 
good stag has come about, but they might keep themselves and their 
dogs down in the bothy until your father had gone out with his rifle. 
Now do you see?” 

” Oh. yes; oh, yes!” said Yolande, eagerly. ” It is very kind of 
you. But what am I to do? My father would not have whisky in 
the house— oh, never, never— not for all the deer in the country. 
Yet it is sad — it is provoking — I should be so proud if he were to get 
some beautiful fine horns to be hung up in the hall when we take a 
house some day. It is very, very, very provoking.” 

“ There is another way,” said he, quietly, ” as the cookery book 
says. You need not have whisky in the house. You might order a 
gallon or two in Inverness and give it in charge to Duncan, the 
keeper. He would have it in his bothy; and would know what to 
do with it.” 

Out came her note-book in a second; Two gallons of whisky ad- 
dressed to Mr. Duncan Macdonald, gamekeeper, Allt-nam-ha, with note 
explaining. At the same moment the dragoman entered the room to 
prepare lunch; and a glance out of the window showed them the 
other members of the party at the foot of that great blazing mass of 
ruddy yellow that rose away into the pale blue Egyptian sky. 

“Mind you, don’t say 1 have had anything to do with it,” said 
he (and he was quite pleased that this little secret existed between 
them). “My father would think I was mad in giving you these 
hints. But yet I don’t think it is good policy to be so niggardly. 
If your father kills three or four stags this year, the forest will be 
none the worse, and Allt-nam-ba will let all the more easily another 
season And I hope it is not the last time we shall have you as 
neighbors.” 

She did not answer the implied question; for now the other mem- 
bers of the party entered the room, breathless and hot and fatigued; 
but glad to be able to shut back at last tiie clamoritig horde of Arabs 
who were still heard protesting and vociferating without. 

That same evening they left Cairo by the night train for A.ysoot, 
where the dahabeah of the Governor of Merhadj was awaiting 
them; and for their greater convenience they took their dinner with 
them. That scrambled meal in the railway-carriage was something 
of an amusement; and in the midst of it all the young Master of 
Lynn would insist on Yolande’s having a little wine. She refused 
at first, merely as her ordinary habit was; but when he learned that 
she had never tasted wine at all, of any kind w^hatever, he begged 
of her still more urgently to have the smallest possible quantity. 

“ It will make you sleep. Miss Winterbourne,” said he, “ and you 
know’ how distressing a wakeful night. journey is.” 

“ Oh, no,” she said, with a smile, “ Not at all. There is to be 
moonlight, and why should not one lie awake? My papa wished 
me not to drink wine, and so I have not; and 1 have never thought 


62 


YOLAN^DE. 


about it. The ladies at the chateau scarcely took any; they said It 
was not any better than water.” 

“ But fancy you never having tasted it at all!” he said, and then 
he turned to her father. “Mr. Winterbourne, will you give Miss 
Yolande permission to take a very little wine — to taste it?” 

The repl^’' of her father was singular. 

/ “ I would sooner see her d^’ink prussic acid— then the end would 
^e at once,” said he. 

Now this answer was so abrupt, and apparently so unnecessarily 
harsh, that the Master of Lynn, not knowing what blunder he had 
made, immediately strove to change the subject; and the most agree- 
able thing he could think of, to mention to Y'olande’s father, was 
the slaying of stags. 

“ While you were going up the Great Pyramid this morning, Mr. 
Winterbourne,” said he, “ we were talking ahjput what j^ou were 
likely to do at Allt-nam-ba; and I was telling your daughter I hoped 
you would get a stag or two.” 

“Yes? — oh, yes,” said Mr. Winterbourne, apparently recalling 
himself from some reverie by an effort of will. “ A slag? 1 hope 
so. Oh, yes, 1 hope so. We will keep a sharp lookout.” 

“Miss Winterbourne,” said the young man, with a significant 
glance at her which seemed to remind her that they had a secret m 
common, “ was surprised to hear that there were no trees in a deer 
forest. But her ignorance was very excusable. How could she 
know? It wasn’t half as bad as the talk of those fellows in Parlia 
ment and the newspapers, who howl because the deer forests are not 
given over to sheep, or to cattle, or turned into small crofts. Good- 
ness gracious, I wonder if any one of them ever saw a deer forest? 
Miss Winterbourne, that will be something for you to see — the soli- 
tude and desolation of the forest — mile after mile of the same moor- 
land and hill without a sounds or the sight of a living thing ” 

“ But is not that their complaint — that so much land is taken 
away, and not for people to live on?” said Y'olande, who had 
stumbled on this subject somewhere in following her father’s Pailia- 
meritary career. 

“ Yes,” said he, ironically; “ 1 wonder what they’d find there to 
live on. They’d find granite bowlders, and withered moss, and a 
hard grass that sheep won’t touch, and that cattle won’t touch, and 
that even mountain hares would starve on. The deer is the only liv- 
ing animal that can make anything of it; and even he is fond of get- 
ting into the gullies to have a nibble at the birch-trees, I wish those 
Radical fellovys knew something of what they w^ere talking about, 
before making all that fuss about the Game Laws. The Game Laws 
won't hurt you, if you choose to keep from thieving.” 

“ But you are a Liberal, are you not?’’ said Yolande, w^ith wide- 
open eyes. Of course, she concluded that any one claiming the 
friendship of her father and herself must needs be a Liberal, Trav- 
elino in the same party, too; why 

Well, it was fortunate for the Master that he found himself ab- 
solved from replying; for Mr. Winterbourne broke in, with a sar 
dome kind of smile on his face. 

“ That is a very good remark of yours, Mr. Leslie,” said he; “ a 
very good remark indeed. 1 have s'omething of the same belief my 


YOLAITDE. 


63 

self, tbouffh I shock some of my friends by saying so. I am for hav- 
ing pretty stringent laws all round; and the best defense for them is 
this — that you need not break them unless you choose. It may be 
morally wrong to hang a man for stealing a sheep; but all you’ve 
got to do is not to steal the sheep. Well, if 1 pay seven hundred 
and fifty pounds for a shooting; and you come on my land and steal 
my birds, 1 don’t care what m^y happen to you. The laws may be 
a little suvere; but your best plan would have been to earn your liv 
ing in a decent way, instead of becoming an idle, sneaking, lying, 
and thieving poacher ” 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly,” said the younger man, with great 
warmth. 

“ That is my belief, at all events,” said Mr. Winterbourne, with 
the same curious sort of a smile; ” and it answers two ends; it en- 
ables me to approve my gamekeeper for the time being, when other- 
wise 1 might think he was just a little too zealous; and also it serves 
to make some friends of mine in the House very wild; and you 
know there is nothing so deplorable as lethargy.” 

” But you are a Liberal, Mr. Leslie, are you not?” repeated 
Yolande. 

And here again he was saved — by the ready wit of his sister. 

‘‘My dearest Yolande, what are you talking about!” she said. 
” What these two have been saying would make a Liberal or a Rad- 
ical jump out of his five senses — or is it seven? Is it seven, Jim?” 

“ I don’t know,” her husband said, lazily. ‘‘Five are quite 
enough for a Radical.” 

“ I know I used to have a great sympathy with poachers,” con- 
tinued pretty Mrs. Graham. It always seemed to me romantic — 1 
mean, when you read about the poacher in poems — his love ol sport, 
you know ” 

” His love of sport!” her husband growled, contemptuously. ” A 
miserable, sneaking fellow loafing abput the public house all day, 
and then stealing out at night with his ferrets and his nets to snare 
rabbits for the market. A love of sport! ” 

“ Oh, but 1 can remember,” said she, stoutly, ‘‘ whenl was a girl, 
there were other stories than that. That is the English poacher. I 
can remember when it was quite well known that the Badenoch 
young fellows were coming into the forest for a deer; and it was 
winked at by everybody, when they did not come more than twice 
or thrice in the year. And that was not for the market. Anybody 
could have a bit of venison who wanted^ and I have heard that there 
WHS a fine odor of cooking in the shepherds’ bothies just about that 
time.” 

‘‘ That has nothing to do with the Game Laws,” her husband 
said, curtly. ‘‘ I doubt whether deer are protected by the Game 
Laws at ail. I think it is only a question of trespass. But 1 quite 
agree with Mr. Winterbourne: if laws are too severe, your best plan 
is not to break them.” 

‘‘ Well, I was cured of my sympathy on one occasion,” said Mrs. 
Graham, cheerfully (having warded off danger from her brother). 
‘‘ Do you remember, Jim? You and I were driving down Glenstroy, 
and we came on some gypsies. They had a tent by the roadside; 
and you know, dear Yolande, I wasn’t an old married woman in 


YOLANDE. 


64 

those days, and grown suspicious; and I thought it would be nice to 
stop and speak to the poor people and give them some money to get 
proper food when they reached a village. Do you know what Jim 
said?—* Money for food? Most likely they are plucking a brace of 
my uncle’s black game.’ Well, thev were not. We got down from 
the trap; and went into the little tent; and they weren’t plucking a 
brace of black game; but they were^ cooking two hen pheasants on 
a spit, as comfortable as might be. I suppose a gypsy w<^ldn’t do 
much good as a deer- stalker thouglL?” 

And while they thus sat and chatted about the far northern wilds 
(Yolande was deeply interested; and the Master of Lynn perceived 
that; and he had himself an abundance of experience about deer) the 
sunset went, and presently, and almost suddenly, they found them- 
selves in the intense blackness of the tropical night. When, from 
time to time, they looked out of the window, they could see nothing 
at all of the world around; though Jupiter and Venus were shining 
clear and high in the western heavens; and Orion’s jewels were 
paling as they sank; and away in the south, near the horizon, the 
solitary Sirius gleamed. But as the nigh't went on (and they were 
still talking of Scotland) a pale light— a sort of faint yellow smoke- 
appeared in the southeast; and then a sharp, keen glint of gold re- 
vealed the edge of the moon. The light grew and spread up into 
the sky; and now the world round them was no longer an indistin- 
guishable mass of black; its various features became distinct as the 
soft radiance became fuller and fuller; and by and by they could 
make out the walls of the sleeping villages, with their strange shadows, 
and the tall palms that threw reflections down on the smooth and 
ghostly water. Can anything be more solemn than moonlight on 
a grove of palms— the weird darkness of them, the silence, the 
consciousness that all around lies the white, still desert! Yolande’s 
fancies were no longer far away; this silent, moonlit world out there 
was a strange thing. 

Then, one by one, the occupants of the railway-carriage dropped 
off to sleep; and Yolande slept too, turning her face into the win- 
dow-corner somewhat, and letting her hands sink placidly into her 
lap. He did not sleep; how could he? He had some vague idea 
that he ought to be a guardian over her, and then — as he timidly 
regarded the perfect lines of her forehead and chin and throat, 
and the delicacy of the small ear, and the sweep of the soft lashes— 
he wondered that this beautiful creature should have been so long- 
in the world and he wasting the years in ignorance; and then (for 
with youth there is little diffidence; it is always “I have chosen; 
you are mine; you cannot be any other than mine ”) he thought of 
her as the mistress of Lynn Towers. In black velvet, would she not 
look handsome, seated at the head of the dinner-table; or in a tail- 
backed chair by the fireplace, with the red glow from the birch logs 
and the peat making glimmerings on her hair? He thought of her 
driving down the Glen; on the steamboat quay; on board the steam- 
boat; in the streets of Inverness; and he knew that nowhere could 
she have any rival. 

And then it occurred to him tliat what air was made by the mo- 
tion of the train must be blowing in upon her face, and that the 
sand-blinds of the windows were not sufficient protection ; and he 


TOLAKDE, 


65 


thought he could rig up something that would more effectually shield 
her. So, in the silence and the semi darkness he stealthily got hold 
of a light shawl of his sister’s, and set to work to fasten one end to 
the top of the carriage door and the other to the netting for the hand- 
baes, m order to form some kind of screen. This maneuver took 
some time; for he was anxious not to waken any one; and, as he 
was standing up, he had to balance himself carefully, for the rail- 
way-carriage jolted considerably. But at last he got it fixed; and 
he was just moving the lower corner of the screen, so that it should 
not be too close to her head, when, by some wild and fearful acci- 
dent, the back of his hand happened to touch her hair. It w^as the 
lightest of touches; but it w^as like an electric shock; he paused, 
breathless; he was quite unnerved; he did not know whether to re- 
treat or wait; it w^as as if something had stung him and benumbed 
his senses. And light as the touch was it awoke her. Her eyes 
opened, and there was a sudden fear and bewilderment in them 
when she saw him standing over her; but the next second she per- 
ceived what he had been doing for her; and kindness and thanks 
were instantly his reward. 

“Oh, thank you — thank you,” she said, with smiling eyes; and 
he was glad to get back into his own corner; and to think over this 
that had happened; and to wonder at the sudden fear that had para- 
lyzed him. At all events, he had not offended her. 

The dawn arose in the east; the cold clear blue giving way to a 
mystic gray, but still the moon shone palely on the palms, and on 
the water, and the silent plains. And still she slept; and he w^as 
wondering whether she was dreaming of the far North, and of the 
place that she longed to make a home of, if only for the briefest 
space. And what if this new day — that was spreading up and up, 
and fighting the pallid moonlight, and bringing with it color and life 
to brighten the awakening world — what it this new day were to 
bring with it a new courage; and he were to hint to her — or even to 
tell her plainly — that this pathetic hope of hers was of easy accom- 
plishment; and that, after their stay at x\llt-nam-ba, if it grieved her 
to think of leaving the place that she had first thought to make a 
home of, there was another home there that would be proud and 
glad to welcome her, not for two mouths or for three months, but 
for the length of her life? Why should not Mr. Winterbourne be 
free to follow out his political career? He had gathered from Yo- 
lande that she considered herself a most unfortunate drag and in- 
cumbrance on her father; was not this a happy solution of all possi- 
ble difficulties? In black velvet, more especially, Yolande would 
look so handsome in the dining-room at Lynn Towers. 


CHAPTER XL 

ISOLATION. 

And as for Mr. Winterbourne himself? Well, he was not blind. 
He could see as far ahead as any of them. If his imagination was 
not captufed by any picture of Yolande in black velvet, and if he 
knew nothing about the desirability of buying back Corrievreak, his 
hope and prayer for the future was clear and definite enough. To 


66 


YOLANDE. 


secure for Yolande a peaceful, safe, and happy life — that was his 
one aim and thought; and already he clearly recognized, and in his 
own mind strove to make light of, in a sadly humorous way, the ne- 
cessity of a separation between him and her. It was the way of the 
world — why should he complain? If she was securely settled in 
life, that would be enough happiness for him. And this young fel- 
low, who was paying her so much obvious attention, was a nice 
enough young fellow, as things went; of good birth and breeding, 
well-mannered, good-natured, and otherwise unobjectionable. And 
Yo’.ande seemed to be on the most friendly terms with him. 

But even now it was a strange thing to find himself being ousted, 
in however slight a degree, from Yolaude’s companionship. It was 
his own doing; and lie knew it; and he knew that he was acting 
wisely in preparing himself by small degrees for the inevitable; and 
yet he had to confess to himself that the operation was not a pleas- 
ant one. Then it was a slow process. Yolande herself did not 
notice how, whether they were in the Cairo bazaars or in the balcony 
at the hotel, her father managed to hang back a little; and how the 
Master of Lynn had come quite naturally to take his place; and how 
it was the latter, and not the former, who knew where her traveling- 
bag was, and called her maid for her, and bought her fruit at the 
stations. On this very morning, for example, ^on their arrival at 
Aysoot, when they had seen their luggage packed on the camels’ 
backs by the tall and swarthy Arabs, and when they set out to walk 
down to the Nile, over the burning sands, it was, as usual, Mr. Les- 
lie who happened to be her companion. Her fathgi' had lingered 
behind, under pretense of once more counting over the articles of 
luggage along with Ahmed the dragoman ; and when he overtook 
the other members of the party, it was the Grahams that he chose 
to accompany. Mrs. Graham was complaining of the discomfort of 
traveling by night, and declaring that she would not undertake such 
anpther journey to avoid all the heat that ever was heard of ; and 
her husband was observing, with the candor of husbands, that her 
hair certainly did look like a hay rick in a gale of wind. 

“ There's Archie,” she said, glancing at the two figures in front 
of them, ” he’s always spick and span. No matter what happens, 
he always looks as if he’d come out of a bandbox.” 

” And a very proper thing, too,” said Mr. Winterbourne. ‘‘ To 
be careless about one’s appearance is no great compliment to one’s 
companions. Mrs. Graham,” he added, in his timid' and nervous 
way, ‘‘ 1 wish you would tell me frankly— you see, there is scarcely 
any one I ask— would you tell me honestly if you think that Yolande 
dresses fairly w^ell?” 

” Oh, I think she dresses charmingly,” eaid pretty Mrs. Gialiain, 
in the most good natured way. ” Quite charmingly. She is so vei v 
original.” 

“But I don’t want her to be original,” he said, with a sli"ht 
touch of querulousness. ” That is just it. I want her to go to The 
very best places; and get what is most correct, and not to mind 
about the cost of it. I don’t care about the cost of it; we have no 
establishment to keep up; no horses or an3dhing of the kind; and 
why should she be so particular about the cost of this or thal ' 


YOLANDE. 67 

Really, Mrs. Graham, it would be so kind of you to give her a word 
of advice ” 

“ Oh, but dear Yolande and I have had long talks about that al- 
ready, yon know, Mr. Winterbourne,” said she. ” Do you suppose 
two women could be so much together without? Ana I know what 
she thinks. First and foremost, she wears what she thinks will 
please you; and 1 think she is rather clever at finding out what you 
like.” 

” Oh, but that is absurd,” said he, peevishly. “ What do 1 know 
about it? Sometimes 1 have made suggestions; but — bull want her 
to be well dressed ” 

” I would not blame her much for being economical,” said Mrs. 
Graham, with a smile. “It is a very useful quality in a girl. She 
might marry a poor man, you know.” 

He glanced at her, with a sort of fright in his eyes. 

“ Oh, but she will never marry any one who— whose position 
would cause her embarrassments of that kind,” he said, hastily. 
” Oh, no. I do not value money much; but she must never be sub- 
jected to embarrassments. Besides, 1 can provide against that. 
That at least is one of the troubles of life she will be safe from. I 
hope there is no fear of that in her mind.” 

” Oh, probably not, doubtless not,” Mrs. Graham said, cheerfully; 
for she was sorry to have caused this alarm by a chance remark. 
“ And you know 1 promised on board ship to buy a lot of silks and 
things for Yolande when we are going home again through 
Cairo ” 

“And silver,” he suggested. “She ought to have different 
belts and bracelets and things of that kind. I suppose Cairo might 
not be the best place for getting some more expensive jewelry, 
would it, do you think? Yolande ought to have more jewelry. 
She is a woman now Her schoolgirl trinkets were all very well ; 
but now she is a woman she must have some proper jewelry ” 

“ If 1 were Yolande,” said Mrs. Graham, demurely, “ and if I 
had a very generous papa, 1 think I know what I should do.” 

“What, then?” said he, with his eyes brightening; for to give 
something to Yoli^nde likely to please her was one of the gladnesses 
of his life— perhaps even the chief. 

“ I would take him to a shop in Cairo — Abderahman, was it? — 
and I would ask him just to look again at that wonderful piece of 
Syrian embroidery ” 

“ 1 remember,” said he, quickly. “ I remember quite well. Of 
course she shall have it! I had no idea she cared for it.” 

“ Do you think any living woman could look at it without covet- 
ing it with her whole soul? But she was not likely to say that to 
you. It was horribly expensive — I forget how much.” 

“ She shall have it,” he said, briefly. 

“ It would make the loveliest opera-cloak.” she suggested. 

“An opera-cloak?” he repeated, with a sudden change of man- 
ner. 

“ It would be perfectly gorgeous.” she said. 

“ Oh, but I don’t think she will want an opera-cloak,” said he, 
“ It would be a pity. It would be throwing it away. ” 


68 


yOLANDE. 


“ Are you nerer going to take her to the theater, the'n?” said Mrs, 
Graham, with a stare. 

“ I hope Yolancle will not live much in cities,” said he, somewhat 
hastily, and evidently wisliing to get rid of the subject. “ She has 
lived always in the country — look at the health of her cheeks. 1 
hope she will never live in a city; she will live a far quieter and hap 
pier life in the country; and she will do very well without theaters 
or anything of that kind.” 

Then he seemed to think he had been unnecessarily harsh in his 
refusal; and so he said, in a lighter way — 

” No, no; I have my own plans, Mrs. Graham. I want to induce 
a very estimable lady to persuade that girl of mine into buying a lot 
of things that are necessary for her now that she is a young woman. 
And I want a bribe for the purpose; and 1 have discovered that she 
has a fancy for a piece of Syrian needlework. Very well — now, 1 
am going to have my own way, and there is no use protesting — you 
are going to take that piece of embroidery home with you; and you 
will make something of it at Inverstroy; and perhaps Yolande and 
1 will pay you a visit some day — if it is not too far to drive from 
Allt-nara-ba — and then we shall see how a bit of Cairo looks in In- 
verness-shire.” 

They could not pursue the subject further; for they now found 
themselves on the landing-stage by the side of the river; and there 
was a fearful shouting and yelling over the unloading of the lug- 
g8ge from the camels’ backs. 6ut from this Babel of confusion 
there w'as an easy escape. Among all the trading vessels moored by 
the river’s bank, there was but one dahabeah (the tourist season be- 
ing long over); and they made no doubt that thisgayly colored thing 
— -looking like a huge state barge, but with long yards sweeping up 
to the sky both at the bow and stern — was the vessel which the Gov- 
ernor of Merhadj had sent for them. They eyed it, every feature of 
it. curiously — the rows of cabin windows with their sun blinds of a 
most vivid green; the vast awning on the upper deck; the enormous 
yellow dragon at the prow; and everywhere a blaze of gaudy colors, 
blue and white. And while they were thus examining it, a tall and 
grave person, in d white turban and garment of somber black, who 
proved to be the captain, came ashore and after m word or two in 
Arabic, with Ahmed, came up to Colonel Graham, and respectfully 
presented him with a letter. 

‘‘ Hillo,” said he, ‘‘this is from young Ismat. Rather queer 
English. He is m ‘ an ab3’^sm of despair.’ Father gone into the 
inierior — important meeting with some sheiks — despairs he must 
remain in Merhadj — hopes to see us when we come up — hopes we 
shall find the dahabeah comfortable — has heard of Ahmed — very 
good man — hopes we bring good news from Cairo — if we are at all 
afraid, his father will give us a guard of soldiers — what the mischief 
does he mean. Come on. Poll}', let’s go and take possession.” ^ 

And indeed it was with great delight that they got away from the 
noise and bustle, the heat and dust, of the outer world into the spa- 
cious and cool interior of this barge, and great was their curiosity in 
exploring cabin after cabin, and finding each one more like a little 
French boudoir — in a cheapish kind of style — than anythin*' 
There was nothing at all Eastern about the fittings or decor 


yolakde. 


69 

this dahabeah, except a green and scarlet rug here and there; the 
saloons and. staterooms were all of white and gold, with flimsy 
French-looking mirrors, and French looking little curtains and ani- 
line-dyed table-covers and sofa cushions. But everything was very 
clean and bright and cool; and the circular open space at the stern 
was a veritable Belvedere, from which, sitting in the shade, they 
could gaze abroad on the wide yellow-green waters of the Nile, and 
on the picturesque scenes along the bank; and when, in due course, 
breakfast was brought them — an interminable meal, with three or 
four kinds‘of wine on the table — they forgot that the menu and the 
dishes were French, when their attendant was an Albanian looking 
person in embroidered cap and baggy breeches of yellow silk, and 
when they heard, outside, the hoarse chorus of a Nubian crew labor- 
ing at the long oars of one of the trading boats. 

Then they went away to their respective cabins to see about the 
unpacking of their luggage; and at the same time the Reis Mustapha 
and his swarthy crew began to unfurl the vast breadth of sail on the 
forward yard, for the north wind was now blowing steady and fair. 
And then, by and by, when the members of the party assembled 
again — on the upper deck, under the wide awning — they found that 
they were out in the shallow lake-like waters of the Nile*, the mighty 
sail in front of them bellying out and straining at the sheets, and 
a rippling sound at the prow making a soft and monotonous music. 
And there were the well-known and monotonous features of the 
famous river: the brown mud- walled villages; the dark green palms 
with their branches slowly moving in the breeze; the arid w’^astes of 
sand; the tall jet-black figures of the Arabs marching along with 
stately stride; now and hgaiu the glimpse of a minaret telling of 
some town or village further inland; a group of fellaheen, driving 
before them their horses, donkeys, and camels; a drove of buffaloes 
brought down to water themselves — nothing visible of each of them 
but a shining back, a snout, and a pair of horns busy with the flies; 
goats sheltering themselves in the shadow of the sand banks from 
the heat of the noonday sun ; unknown birds floating afar on the 
surface of the river or stalking unconcernedly along the yellow 
shoals; and over all this abundant and curious life the pale distant 
heat-obscured turquois-blue of the African sky, so different from 
the deep and keen and quivering blue of the storm-washed atmos- 
pheres of the north. 

“ Well, now. Miss Yolande,” sg-id Colonel Graham, lying back in 
the cane-bottomed easy-chair, and carefully regarding the ash of his 
cigar, “ what do you think of Ahmed’s arrangements? Are they 
satisfactory? Does the turmoil of Nile travel fatigue you; do the 
hardships oppress you? Of course, you cannot expect to penetrate 
the deserts of Africa without suffering privations. I hope the 
meager fare will not make a skeleton of you. The rude accommo- 
dation of these cabins ” 

“Oh 1 think everything is delightful, “ said she, “ and this cool 
wind is delicious.” 

But then she fixed her eyes on him solemnly. 

“ I wished to ask a question, however. Colonel Graham. Did you 
hear a 'shriek? No? Well, this is the question: I found a cock- 
roach in one of the draw'ers as big as — as — w'ell, 1 thought it was an 


70 YOLANDK 

alligator out of the river — you did not hear Jane shriek — and I would 
like to know if all the beasts are similar in proportion ” 

“ My dear child!” broke in Mrs. Graham. “ Thank goodness 
you know nothing about it — you never were in India. Here you 
haven’t to twitch off the bedclothes before going to bed to make sure 
that there isn’t a snake waiting for you. Why, what is there here? 
Nothing. The heat is bad; but it is dry ; it does not sap the life out 
of you like the Indian heat. The flies worry; but they are not 
nearly so bad if you don’t lose your temper. The mosquitoes are 
pretty considerable, I admit; but you have your Levinge ” 

” Do you think I was complaining?” exclaimed Yolande. ” Com- 
plaining? — as we are now?” 

” No it was Jim, I dare say,” said the other, most gratuitously. 
” Men always do complain because they have so little to complain 
about. But it would take an A 1 complainer to find anything wrong 
with a day like this, or with such a pleasant setting-out; and 1 do 
hope, Jim, you will be civil for once, and let that young fellow and 
his father know how much we are obliged to them for the loan of 
the boat. They expect it, those Eastern people. They are not all 
grumpy, like Englishmen and Scotchmen. I do hope you’ll be po- 
lite to him.” 

“All right,” said her husband, with his lazy good-nature, “I’ll 
Bismillah him within an inch of his life.” 

So the calm and shining and dream-like day went pleasantly by, 
the slow-moving panorama round them constantly offering objects 
of new interest. In the afternoon they passed some ranges of bare 
and arid limestone hills: and on the face of them — now catching a 
faint pink or lilac glow from the westering sun — they could make 
out the entrances of ancient tombs, placed high above all possible 
inundations. It was not far south of this portion of the river that the 
Reis resolved to come to an anchor, for ttie sunset (which was 
somewhat chromo-lithographic iu character, like most of the atmos- 
pheric effects in Egypt) was of brief duration; and the twilight was 
even briefer, so that night, with all her stars, was upon them ere 
th^ had begun to think of preparing for dinner. 

That was a pleasant enough meal, too, in the cheerful little 
saloon, the spurious colors of which were in a measure subdued by 
the jmllow radiance of the swinging lamp. The two women had 
put on their lightest and coolest and brightest costumes; and now, for 
the first time, perhaps, they recognized how completely the little 
group of them was shut off from the world. On board ship they 
had plenty of neighbors; m hotels they sat at the but 

here they were really a family party; and Colonel Graham, in ad- 
dressing Yolande, dropped the “Miss,” quite naturally, and it 
seemed as though these people had known each other all their lives 
through, and that they had come away for their holiday-trip, and 
were to be together unlilthey returned again together to their proper 
home in the Highlands. The Grahams, indeed, talked as if they 
had already annexed and adopted Y'olande. 

After dinner they adjourned to the upper deck, for the sake of 
coolness, and there coffee was brought them; and the woraen-folk 
lay idly in their rocking-chairs and used their fans; and tlie men lit 
their cigars. There was plenty of light, for two large swinging 


YOLAKDE. 


71 

lamps had been hung from the iron bars ; and these threw a reddish- 
golden glow on the canvas of the awning and on the deck. But 
one had only to step to the side of the vessel, and look out from this 
yellow glare'to find all around the darkness and stillness of the desert, 
and overhead the solemn heavens with their multitude of throbbing 
stars. The Nile could scarcely be heard, as it ran swiftly and noise- 
lessly and unseen beneath. 

By and by, the Master of Lynn, who had been leaning on the rail- 
ing. and looking out into the clear, dark night, came back, and said 
to Yolande — 

“ Miss 'Winterbourne, I wish you would come and look at this 
constellation. I think it is the Southern Cross. Do you know it? 
I think this must be the Southern Cross.” 

She instantly rose and followed him to the side of the deck, where 
they were at some little distance from the others. The}’^ talked 
about the constella'lion; but could make nothing of it. Of course, 
what he had asked her to come there for was to fulfill hi^„]’esolve of 
the night before — to hint to her that, if the charm of home had such 
great attractions for her, there was one home he knew that would be 
glad to welcome her and cherish her, now aod throughout all her 
life. But some compunction seized him — some sudden qualm of 
conscience. The doubt occurred to him as to whether it was quite 
fair. It was like trying to steal away the affections of the girl; and 
she the only daughter and companion of this solitary man. Ought 
he not to speak to her father first; and get to know what his plans 
were; and so be able to approach her in a franker way? Perhaps he 
might be able to gain Mr. "Winterbourne’s approval, and thus be 
thrice armed? 

Yolande’s father, who had regarded these two as they stood there 
by the rail, looking out into the starlit night, watched them as they 
came back again ; and he looked at the girl with a strange and wist- 
ful look. Had she said “Yes,” already? Was she going away 
from him? But there was no sign of any emotion on the fair young 
face — neither alarm, nor concealment, nor maiden hesitation, nor 
anything of the sort. Quite frankly and naturally she came over to 
her father’s chair, sat down beside him on the deck, and put her hand 
on his knee. 

“ I wish I knew a little more about the stars,” she said. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A CONSPIRACY. 

“ 1 THINK I am doing what is right,” the Master of Lynn said to 
his sister, of whom, in his perplexity, he was driven to take counsel. 

They liad once more resumed their idle, uneventful, dream-like 
voyage up the broad river; and the dahabeah was large, and had 
many quiet corners for confidential conversations. Moreover, the 
monotony of the scene around them left them ample leisure. Their 
attention was seldom called away by any striking feature or inci- 
dent, and never at all by any atniospheric phenomena, 'fhey had 
grown accustomed to the level plains of yellow sand, the distant low 


YOLANDE. 


72 

hills quivering in the heat, the wide, yellow-green waters ruffled by 
the northerly breeze, and the palms, and the mud villages, and the 
groups of swarthy Arabs or Nubians lazily driving down the sheep 
and camel and buffalo to the banks of the stream. The pulse of the 
w'orld beats slowly there. 

“ Yes, I think you are doing what is right— though not what is 
usual, perhaps,” said his sister, regarding him. 

” What do you mean?” 

” Oh, well,” she said, with a smile, ‘‘ no doubt it is quite correct 
to ask the papa’s permission first; it is quite according to rule and eti- 
quette; but generally, 1 should think, some understanding exists ” 

“But I am afraid to startle her,” he said, quickly. “Besides, 
there might be some one else; and I would rather get to know that 
from her father.” 

“ There is no one else,” said pretty Mrs. Graham, sipping her 
tumbler of cold tea. “ What is more, you are acting with greater 
prudence t’ An X could have given you credit for. But 1 suppose 
you don’t know; you don’t understand.” 

“ What’s the conundrum now?” he asked, bluntly. 

“ Yolande and 1 have had some talk together,” she said; and she 
regarded him with an air of superior sagacity. “ 1 happen to know 
what she thinks; and you are acting very prudently in going to her 
father first. She has been educated in France.” 

“ What do you mean? Why don’t you speak out?” he said, irri- 
tated by these women’s ways of mystery. 

“ Is there any need? She has been educated in France; and she 
knows what her duty is. She will marry any one her father ap- 
proves of. It is for him to arrange it. But there is something 
further in her case. Yolande is haunted by a fear that she is a bur- 
den and drag on her father — that she is taking him away from pub- 
lic life. And 1 think she is right. Why should he be here just 
now, for example? It is all very well for Jim and me to take a 
holiday; bnt for a member of the House of Commons to be continu- 
ally leaving England to travel about as he and Yolande do — I don’t 
understand it. It is absurd. Very well; if she once imagines that 
her father would like to see her married, so that he might attend to 
his own affairs, the way is clear. And it would be a very good 
thing. 1 like the girl. She sticks up for her own; whoever she 
marries won’t have to blow his own trumpet. It would be a very 
good thing in many ways. 1 was saying to Jim only the other day, 
that you might buy back Corrievreak. ” 

“ Do you think 1 want to marry her for her money?” said he. 

“ Wejl, no. But she has money— or will have it. 1 dare say, 
now, if Shena Vdn* ” 

“ Leave Miss Stewart alone,” said he, somewhat hotly. 

She laughed. 

“Poor girl! It wasn’t her fault that she was born in a Scotch 
manse instead of being the daughter of a member of the House of 
Commons. But I think Shena Vdn, with all her pretty eyes, had a 
bit of a temper, you know Archie ” 

♦ The proper spelling is Sine Bhan— Fair Janet. 


TOLAKDE. 73 

** Leav^e ber alone, will you?" he said, roughly. “ Tou have done 
her enough mischief." 

"I?" said Mrs. Graham, with a stare. 

" Well, never mind. That is done with. Why don’t you have a 
turn at Miss Winterbourne? You and she appear to be great friends; 
and women can always sa}'^ spiteful things about their nearest 
friends. Haven’t you some nice things to say about her too?" 

" Wait till she is your wife, Archie; and then 1 will find out all 
manner of things against her. You have no idea how sharp a sister- 
in-law’s eyes are." 

However, this prospect had the immediate effect of removing his 
wrath; be grew quite friendly and confidential again, and finady 
announced his resolve to speak to Mr. Winterbourne that very day. 

If the thing is possible, it will be better to learn it from him. 
If I were to ask Yolande herself, and if she said no, look how awk- 
ward that would be for the rest of this trip. I’d have to go. No; 
I’ll have everything fair and above board; and then no one can com- 
plain, whatever happens." 

And yet the long, pleasant, idling day had passed before he had 
screwed up his courage to make the plunge. They had come to an 
anchor for the night; the sun was sinking far away in the west; 
along the low-lying eastern hills there was a flush of the pale ethereal 
pink. The womenfolk had disappeared to dress for dinner. Colo- 
nel Graham was at the stern of the dahabeah, fishing; Mr. Winter- 
bourne and he were alone on the upper deck; clearly it was an 
opportunity not to be missed. Nor, indeed, was there any difficulty, 
once the subject was mentioned. Yolande’s father seemed inclined 
to meet the younger man half way, though there was more of 
resignation than of gladness in the way he spoke. 

" Of course, everything depends on herself," he said, at length. 
" She must be guided by her own wishes " 

" Oh, yes, certainly, certainly," said the younger man, with eager- 
ness, " I would not let any consideration interfere with her perfect 
freedom of choice. That is not to be thought of ’’ 

Mr. Winterbourne was scarcely heeding him; his thoughts were 
far away; and, when he spoke, it was to interrupt — a rudeness of 
which he was never consciously guilty. 

" Yes, I should like to see Yolande settled in life," he said, ab- 
sently. " There is no saying what might happen to me. Once or 
twice 1 have fancied my heart was affected— but 1 would not have 
her imagine such a thing, remember; you must never mention 
it ’’ 

" Oh, certainly not!" 

“ Very slight surprises are enough to give me pretty bad palpita- 
tion," he continued, " and although it may be nothing serious, still 
— if Yolande were made quite happy and secure, my mind would be 
more at rest. 1 don’t say much about her, though I might. If you 
win her affection, you are not likely to lose it; she is stanch. And 
she has courage. If trouble should come to her or hers, she will 
not be the one to flinch." 

" But why should you anticipate trouble?" said the Master of 
Lynn, who was very much excited and joyous, and almost eager to 
go away and ask Yolande at once. " 1 can see nothing but a pleas- 


74 tOLAKDE. 

ant and happy life for her. Of course, sickness may come to any 
one; but it is less likely to fall on her than any one 1 know. Why, 
to look at her ” 

“ She ought always to live in the country,’' said Mr. Winter- 
bourne, quickly, and he glanced at his companion in an inquiring 
sort of way. “ I hope she will never live in town — the peace and 
quiet of the country are what 1 should wish for her always. She 
does not care for society. Her own small circle is enough for her: 
that is where she is best seen; it is there you get to know her — and 
— and to love her. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t talk about her. She 
and I have been pretty close companions. It will seem strange to 
me, at first, that she should belong to some one else; but— but it is 
right; it is in the natural course of things. I shall be content if 1 
know that she is being treated with kindness and affection — and 
with a little consideration for her youth. Perhaps she will make 
mistakes, as a young wife; but she is willing lo do her best— and — 
and she is grateful — for a little consideration ” 

It was scarcely an appeal. He was describing Tolande as he had 
known her. He was thinking of all those bygone years. 

But at this moment they were startled by the report of a gun; and 
that was followed by another and another. 

“ What the mischief is that?” called out Colonel Graham, as he 
hurried forward to the bow; for, indeed, the air was full of ominous 
rumors just at that time; and even a general massacre of the Eu- 
ropeans in Egypt had been talked of as a possibility. 

It appeared, however, that this crowd of people who now emerged 
from a belt of palms, and came down to the river’s edge to some 
boats there, was only a wedding-party; and Ahmed, who had been 
ashore with the chef, explained that these were the friends of the 
bride, escorting her thus far, while the husband lo be (the wedding 
ceremony was to take place in the evening) had sent camels to meet 
her, which were waiting for her on the other side of the Nile. And 
of course Mrs. Graham and Yolande were instantly called for. and 
came up in time to see the little veiled woman, with much conscious 
dignity, take her place in one of the boats, while her friends pro- 
ceeded to put into the other boats the bales of carpets and the eight 
or ten donkeys which formed herfnarriage portion. Then, away on 
the other aide, they saw two camels make their appearance, the first 
of them with a big tent on its back, surmounted by three tall hearse- 
like plumes; and Ahmed, with much queer English, managed to 
explain that these plumes were the projecting tops of the three palms 
of which the tent was composed; and that the tent was sent by the 
bridegroom to receive his bride, while the other camel was to carry 
her household plenishing. 

” It is obvious he hasn’t sent a camel to fetch his mother-in-law,” 
said Colonel Graham ; but the solemn-faced Ahmed did not under- 
stand what was meant, and took refuge in a surreptitious cigarette. 

Then they saw the boats being slowly rowed across the great 
stream ; and the donkeys and bales were landed ; and the bride dis- 
appeared into the tent; and presently the procession was on its way 
again, until the gathering dusk and the inequalities of the desert hid 
bride and friends and all from view. 

” It is a wide river,” said Mr. Winterbourne, absently, looking at 


tOLANDil, 


•^5 

tbe flowing waters, " to lie between the old home and the new, 
between the old life and the new. But it is the way of the world. 
She may be quite as happy as a wife as she was as a girl.” 

” 1 don’t see why she shouldn’t be a great deal happier,” Mrs. 
Graham said, cheerfully. ” 1 am. 1 iflean, 1 should be, if Jim 
weren’t so impatient with Baby, Come away, Yolande, dear; 1 
have found a piece of blue ribbon, and I am going to make a snood 
for your hair.” 

At dinner it was very clear to Mrs. Graham that her brother had 
so far met with no hinderance to his suit; for he was unusually 
vivacious, and most obviously attentive and respectful to Yolande. 
He was delighted with Egypt, and with this placid and idle life, and 
with the general lesolve^ to abstain from sight-seeing (” there are 
plenty of British museums everywhere, when you want to be 
bored,” he said, somewhat incorrectly); but be was chiefly busy 
with anticipations of the Highlands, and of the circumstances under 
which this same little party would reassemble there. He volun- 
teered to go over from Lynn to Allt-nam ba whenever Mr, Winter- 
bourne wanted a rifle for one of the passes; nay, he said he knew 
the woods w’ell. and would be glad to serve as an extra beater at any 
time. And when Mr. Winterbourne and Miss Yolande went to 
Inverstroy, he meant to beg his brother-in-law for an invitation. Of 
course they would be going up the hill — that is, Mr. Winterbourne 
and Colonel Graham — and they wmuld want all the keepers and 
gillies they could get; and what, in that case, was to become of Miss 
Yolande’s salmon-fishing if he were not there to help? And Yo- 
lande regarded him with pleased and grateful eyes. It was so clear 
that he wished to be kind to her. 

After dinner they found that the Arab sailors were having a little 
concert among themselves, and they stood for awhile to listen. The 
.grave-faced performers, with their flowing robes and heavily lur- 
baned heads, looking picturesque enough in the light of the swing- 
ing lamp, were squatted in a circle in the forward part of the daha- 
beab, one of them possessed of a tambourine, another strumming 
on two small tom-toms: and to the time thus beat each singer would 
contribute a piece of shrill, high, melancholy recitative, while the 
others accompanied him wdth a heavy monotonous bass chorus. 
The Master of Lynn touched his sister on the arm; and she drew 
back from the little group without her absence being noticed. The 
two of them passed through the saloon, along the corridor between 
the cabins, and out into what they called the Belvedere. Here there 
was nothing visible but the shining starlit heavens and the great 
broad dusky stream. 

” Well?” she said. 

” So far it is all right,’* he said, in a low voice, but with consid- 
erable excitement. “ Oh, you can’t imagine how sensible and rea- 
sonable he is about it — and so friendly, too. He told me exactly 
how he was situated. He would like to see her married and com- 
fortably settled; and he just as good as intimated that he hoped she 
would say yes, although, of course, he said he would have every- 
thing left to her own -wislies. There is another reason, too— which 
1 cannot tell you about; but 1 can see plainly that his mind would 
be much more at ease if thi.s thing were to come off. 1 am sure of 


/ 


YOLANDE. 


76 


it. Of course, he spoke in rather a sad way; any one can under- 
stand that; but ever}-^ one has to consider what will be best in the 
end. And now, don’t you see, Polly— now that I have got on so 
far, 1 am beginning to feel a little bit shaky. If it had been stopped 
at the beginning, well and^good; but now I don’t want to spoil my 
chance by making a mistake. And my nerves are not what they 
ought to be— hanged if they are; one gets no exercise in this daw- 
dling kind of life; and you don’t feel fit ” 

“ 1 know what you’re driving at, Archie,” said his sister, with a 
little laugh. ” You want encouragement. Poor thing! Are you 
so very nervous? Is she so terrible?” 

” Oh, but you don’t understand,” said he. “ Y^ou don’t see what 
a chance I have got. Of course a woman does not covet a prize like 
that; and you don’t understand why 1 should feel nervous. But — 
but, you know, if she were suddenly startled, jhe might say no. 
plump and decisive. There would be an end. Whereas, if the idea 
were suggested to her by some one else ” 

” That’s me,” said his sister, plainly. ‘‘You want me to speak 
to her. But don’t you think, my dear Master, that the idea has 
already oceurred to her, and been suggested by yourself? I should 
have thought your attentions were obvious enough.” 

” Y"ou ought to know, Polly,” said he. 

*‘ Well, they were obvious enough to me.” 

‘‘ But she is strange,” said he, doubtfully. *‘ She seems to think 
it natural that people should be friendly with her; and with people 
she knows she has very little reserve. But 1 have watched her. 1 
have watched her manner with Graham; she is quite as friendly 
with him as she is with me. Of the two, 1 would say she was more 
friendly with him; she talks to him as if she had known him all her 
life,” 

‘‘My dear Master, that is her cunning,” said his sister, coolly. 
‘‘■They’re all like that. They pretend to prefer married men ; but 
* tney are watching the unmarried ones all the same. Wait till you 
^eak.” 

He was silent for a second or two; and, fortunately, the Arabic 
improvisation going on forward seemed interminable. He passed 
the fingers of one hand over the open palm of the other; and regard- 
ed them pensively. 

‘‘ If the biggest stag in Glendyerg was within eighty yards of me 
just now, I’d back its life against my rifle. I don’t know what to 
do, Polly.” 

” There is only the one thing to do,” said his practical sister. 

I am afraid of that plump and final no. I can’t face it. 
Why ” 

‘‘ And you want me to go and make her a proposal of marriage on 
your account? I wonder what she would think of you!” said pretty 
Mrs. Graham, scornfully. 

‘‘ I don’t want anything of the kind,” said he. ” You don’t un- 
derstand. Where are your brains, Polly?— they’re generally sharp 
enough. I want you to make her familiar with the idea. 1 don’t 
want to have her startled and frightened. Don’t you see, there are 
a whole lot of things that a third person could talk about. You 
could tell her, ^or example, that traveling by ourselves like this 


YOLANDE. 


77 

shows you what people are. You see what they are, and know them. 
It isn’t the chance acquaintanceship of ballrooms and drawing- 
rooms. And she doesn’t look on us as acquaintances at all; we are 
all old friends now — and rightly, too. There are whole heaps of 
things, like that, don’t you see, Polly, that you might say to her, so 
that she wouldn’t be frightened and startled ” 

“ And what am I to have for my share in this conspiracy?” 

“ Why, the prettiest sister-in-law you could wish for!” he said. 

‘‘ Oh, 1 know' you. You can say sharp things; but I can see you 
are very fond of her; and I know you would be very proud of her 
if you were to take her to the Northern Meeting, at Inverness. 
What’s more; I’d back you two, for good looks, against any tw’o 
women at the Ball ; and they get up a finer show there than anywhere 
else I know. She would just suit you, Polly — dark and fair together, 
of course; and I know she thinks you dress awfully well; and she 
would take your advice.” 

This final touch proved effectual ; even the shrewd young married 
woman succumbed. 

“ "Well, I will try to find out what she thinks about it,” she said. 

” Of course, it is on the distinct understanding that her father ap- 
proves?” 

” Oh, most decidedly. He told me so in the plainest terms.” 

” For that is the short and the long of the whole matter, Very 
well, I will speak to her. I will do my best for you, Archie, you 
may depend. For sooner or later you would be making a fool of 
3 ^ourself with some one; and this girl is really very nice, and lady- 
like; and I don’t think you are likely to do better, in other respects. 

I suppose thej have gone up above for coffee, shall we go?” 

That same night Mrs. Graham announced the news to h^er husband;*'^ 
in the privacy of their cabin. t 

” I think it is all plain sailing now with Archie,” she said. ” He 
has spoken to Mr. Winterbourne about Yolande; and Mr. Winter- 
bourne has given his consent.” 

” The deuce he has!” 

” Why shouldn’t he?” she retorted, with some sharpness. 

” Oh, I dare say it’s all right,” rejoined the lazy soldier, as he 
began to arrange the occult mechanism of his Levinge. ” Rather a 
brief acquaintance, ain’t it?” 

“ Why, certainly not. Archie was talking about that very thing. 
This constant companionship is worth years of acquaintanceship, 
and I don’t see why they should not thoroughly understand and 
appreciate each other by now. Archie does, any way. And each 
has just what the other wants; she has monej'; and he will succeed 
to the title. I think it will be a very ffood match.” 

” Oh, I think so too,” her husband said, good-naturedly. ” She 
seems fond of him. And if he treated her with a little less courtesy, 

I dare say she would treat him with a little more frankness; she is 
a humorous young party at times. But that will all come right. I 
don’t quite see why it shouldn’t be quite plain sailing, as you say. 
His lordship will kick up dust and thunder about Winterbourne’s 
politics; but the buying back of Corrievreak will bring him round. 
Good night.” 

Suddenly she uttered a shrill scream. 


78 


YOLAKDE. 


“Oh, Jim — a cockroach!” 

“ Very well; it isn’t a kangaroo, is it?” said he, sulkily. “Be- 
sides, my revolver isn’t loaded.” 

“ Such a beast! — such a monster!” 

“ Why don’t you get into your hammock, then, instead of sitting 
there?” 

“ I’m going directly, ’ she said; for indeed her dread of these huge 
insects was such that they had had to rig up a hammock for her in 
her cabin. “ But, Jim, 1 want to ask you about something that has 
been puzzling me a good deal. Didn’t you sa}^ that the Winter- 
bournes were a comparatively old family, up in the noith of Eng- 
land there?” 

“ 1 believe so — I’ve heard so,” her husband said, sleepily. 

“ Then why should Mr. Winterbourne want me to buy jewelry 
for Yolande?” 

“ Because she hasn’t got any; or hasn’t got enough, I suppose. 
Don’t see it’s any of my business.” 

“ But where is the family jewelry?” 

“ How can I tell? He may be a younger son — rather think he is. 
What does it matter to you? You’ll like the spending of the money 
well enough.” 

“ But how should the girl come to have no jewelry at all? Where 
is her mother’s? And her mother’s mother’s?” 

“ Oh, how can I tell! All I know is, she’ll soon have plenty if 
Winterbourne allows you to go careering up and down Bond Street.” 

“ Well, it is strange, you know,” said pretty Mrs. Graham, as 
she placidly examined the fastenings of her hammock. “ 1 don’t 
^ understand it; but it is one of those things that one can’t well ask 
"about. 1 never knew a girl, at her age, in her position in life, who 
hadn’t plenty of jewelry — family rings and things of that sort. 
What an odd thing it would be if an engagement ring were to be the 
first; and in that case I do hope Archie will buy a nice one when he 
is about it! But it is very strange, you know, Jim.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

INTERVENTION. 

Mrs. Graham saw clearly before her the difficulties and danger 
of the task she had undertaken; and she approached it with much 
circumspection and caution. Time and an abundance of opportu- 
nities were on her side, however. Moreover, she and Yolande were 
like sisters now; and when the men-folk were smolsing together in 
some other part of the dahabeah, and talking about public affairs or 
their chances of having a little shooting in the neighborhood of Mer- 
hadj, these two w'ere most likely seated in the cool shade of the Bel- 
vedere, having a quiet and confidential chat all to themselves, the 
while the slow-moving panorama of the Nile stole stealthily by. 

And gradually Mrs. Graham got Yolande to think a good deal 
about the future, which, ordinarily, the girl was loath to do. She 
had an admirable capacity for enjoying the present moment, so long 
as the weather was fine, and her father not a long way off. She had 


YOLAKDE. 


79 


never experienced any trouble ; and why should she look forward to 
any? She was in perfect health; and consequently her brain was free 
from morbid apprehensions. Sometimes, when Mrs. Graham was 
talking with the sadness begotten of worldly wisdom, the younger 
woman would laugh lightly and ask what there was on earth to 
depress her— except, perhaps, the absence of dear Baby. In short, 
Yolande could not be made anxious about herself. She was content 
to lake the present as it was, and the future as it might come. She 
was far mbre interested in watching the operations of this or that 
African kingfisher, when the big black and gray bird, after flutter- 
ing in the air for awhile in the manner of a hawk, would swoop 
down and dive into the river, emerging with a small silver fish in 
its beak. 

But if she could not easily be made anxious about herself, she 
very easily indeed could be made anxious about her father; and 
Mrs. Graham quickly discovered that anything suggested about him 
was instantly sufficient to arouse her interest and concern. She 
played upon that pipe skillfully; and yet with not the faintest notion 
that her siren music was anything but of the simplest and honestest 
kind. Was it not for the welfare and happiness of every one con- 
cerned? Even Jim, with his faculty for looking at the sardonic side 
of things, had not a word to say against it. It would be a very 
good arrangement, that oracle had declared. 

“Do you know, dear,” said she, one morning, to Yolande, 
“ what Jim has just been saying? — that he would not be surprised 
if, sooner or later, your father were ottered some place in the Gov- 
ernment.” 

Yolande opened her eyes wide with surprise. But then she 
laughed, and shook her head. ‘ V 

“ Oh, no. It is impossible. He is not good friends with the Gov- 
ernment. He has too many opinions to himself.” 

“ I don’t know,” said pretty Mrs. Graham, looking at one of the 
little French mirrors, and smoothing her curls. “I don’t know. 
You should hear Jim, anyway. Of course, I don’t mean a post 
with a seat in the Cabinet; but office of some kind — an under-Secre- 
taryship or something of that sort. Jim says he heard just before 
he left town that the Government were going to try to conciliate the 
Radicals; and that some member' below the gangway would most 
likely be taken in It would please some of the northern towns; 
and Slagpool is an important place.” 

“ Oh, do you think it is possible?” cried the girl, with anew light 
in her eyes. “ My pana in the Ministry — and always in town?” 

“ That’s just it, Yolande, dear,” said Mrs. Graham. “If your 
papa were a member of the Government, in whatever place, he could 
not go gallivanting about like this ” 

“ Oh. of course not, certainly not,” the girl said, eagerly. “ He 
would live in London. He would have a house— a proper home. 
Do you think it is likely? I never heard of it before. But why 
should it not be— why should it not be, dear Mrs. Graham? There 
are very few members in the House of Commons — why, scarcely any 
at all — who are returned by such a number of persons. Look at the 
majority he always has: does it not say that those people respect 


80 


YOLANDE. 


him, and believe he is working for the good of the country? Very 
well; why should it not be?” 

” 1 quite agree with you; and Jim sa3's it is not at all unlikely. 
But you were talking about a house, Yolande, dear: well, it would 
scarcely be worth j’^our papa’s while to take a house merely for you; 
though it is certainly of importance for a member of ihe Govern- 
ment to have a town house, and entertain, and so forth. You could 
scarcely manage that, you know, my dear; you are rather young; 
but if your papa were to marry again?” 

‘‘ Yes?” said Yolande, without betraying any dismay. 

” In that case I have been wondering what would become of you,” 
said the other, with her eyes cast down. 

” Oh, that is all right,” said the girl, cheerfully. ” That is quite 
light. Madame has directed me to that once or twice — often; but 
not alw'^ays with good sense, I consider. For it cannot alwa3^s hap- 
pen that stepmother and stepdaughter do not get on well — if there is 
one who is very anxious to please. And if my papa were to marry 
again, it is not that I should have less of his society; I should have 
more; if there was a home, and 1 allowed to remain, I should have 
more; and why should I have anything but kindness for his wife, 
who gives me a home? Oh, 1 assure you it is not I who would 
make any quarrel.” 

” Oh, no; 1 dare say not — I dare sa3’' not, Yolande dear,” said the 
other, with a gracious smile. “You are not terribly quarrelsome. 
But it seldom answers. You would find yourself in the way. 
Sooner, or later, you would find 3murself in the way.” 

“ Then I would go.” 

, “.Where?” 

•'tlie girl made a little gesture by turning out the palms of hei 
hands ever so slightly. 

“ I will tell you, my dear child, of one place where you could go. 
If you came to us atinverstroy — now, or then, or at an3' time — there 
is a home there waiting for 3mu; and Jim and I would just make a 
sister of you.” 

She spoke with feeling; and, indeed, with honesty; for she was 
quite ready to have welcomed Yolande to their northern home, 
wholly apart from the projects of the Master of Lynn. And Yo- 
lande for a second put her hand on her friend’s hand. 

“ 1 know that,” said she, “ and it is very kind of you to think of 
it; and I believe it true — so much that, if there was an3'^ need, I 
would accept it at once. And it is a very nice thing to think of; 
that there are friends who would take you into their own home, if 
there were need. Oh, I assure you, it is pleasant to think of, even 
when there is no need at all.” 

“ Will you come and try it? Will you come and see how you like 
it?” said pretty Mrs. Graham, with a courageous cheerfulness. 
“ Why not? Your papa wants to be back in time for the Budget, 
or even before that. The3^ say that it will be a late Session — that if 
they get away for the Twelfth they will be lucky. Now, you know, 
dear Yolande, between ourselves, your father’s constituents are very 
forbearing. It is all very well for us to make a joke of it here; but 
really — really — reall3^ ’ ’ 

“ I understand you very well,” said Yolande, quickly; “ and you 


TOLAl^DE. 


81 

think he should remain in London till the Twelfth, and always be at 
the House? Yes, yes; that is wliat I think too. Do you imagine it 
is 1 who lake him away on voyage after voyage? No! For me, I 
would rather have him always at the House. I would rather read 
his speeches in the newspaper than see any more cities, and cities, 
and cities.” 

“Very well; hut what are you going to do, Yolande, dear, be- 
tween the time of our getting back and the Twelfth?” 

“ Oh,” said Yolande, with her face brightening, ” that will be a 
busy time— no more of going away— and I shall be all the time in 
the hotel in Albemarle Street — and papa and I dining together every 
night, and having a chat before he goes to the House.” 

“ I am sure you are mistaken there,” said Mrs. Graham, promptly. 
“ Your father won’t let you stay all that time in town. He hates 
the very name of town. He is too fond of you, too careful of you, 
Yolande, dear, and too proud of the roses in your cheeks, to let yoii 
shut yourself up in a town hotel.” 

“ But look at me!” the girl said, indignantly. “Do 1 look un- 
well? Am 1 sick-looking? Why should not I live in a town hotel 
as well as others? Are all unwell who live in London? No; it is 
folly to say that. And if anything were likely to make me unwell, 
it is not living in London; but it is the fretting, when 1 am away 
from London, that I can be of no use to my papa, and that he is liv- 
ing alone there. Think of his living alone in the hotel, and dining 
alone there — worse than that still, dining at the House of Commons. 
Why, it was only last night Colonel Graham and he were speaking 
of the bad dinners there — the heat and the crush and the badly 
cooked joints — yes, and I sitting there, and saying to myself, ‘ V^y 
well, and what is the use of having a daughter if she cannot get ibr 
you a pretty dinner, with flowers on the table?” 

“ 1 understand you so well; when you speak, it is like myself 
thinking,” said Mrs. Graham, in her kindly way (and not at all im- 
agining that she was anything of a hypocrite, or talking for a pur- 
pose); but you may put it out of your head Your father won’t let 
you stay in town. 1 know that.” 

“ Then 1 suppose it will be Oatlands Park,” said Yolande, with a 
bit of a sigh. 

“ No. Why should it?” said her friend, briskly. “ Come to 
Inverstroy. Go back with us. Then we will see about the cook 
and the housemaid in Inverness; and Archie will get the dog-cart 
and horses for you; and we might even go down to Allt-nam-ba, and 
see that the keeper has kept on fires during the winter, and that the 
lodge is all right. And then we will all go on to Inverstroy — Archie 
as well; and he will take you out salmon fishing, for I shall have 
my own house to attend to for awhile; but we will make you just 
one of the family, and you will amuse yourself just as you think 
best; and if we don’t pet you. and make you comfortable, and as 
happy as ever you were in your life, then my name isn’t Mary Gra- 
ham. You will just see what a Highland welcome we will give 
you!” 

“ I know — I know,^ said the girl. “ How can 1 thank you for 
such kindness? But then to think of my papa being all that time 
left by himself in London ” 


82 


YOLANDE, 


‘‘ My dear Yolande, I must speak frankly to you, even if you 
fancy it cruel. Don’t you imagine your father would stand a little 
better with his constituents, and consequently be more at ease in his 
own mind, if he were left by himself a little more than at present? 
Don’t you think it might be prudent? Don’t you think it would 
be better for every one If he were left a little freer?” 

” Yes, yes — it is so — I can see it ” 

” And if you were with us, he could give his whole time and at- 
tention to Parliament.” 

“Yes, yes — though 1 had other wishes as well,” the girl said, 
with her lips becomine: a little tremulous. 

“ It is a very awkward situation,” said Mrs. Graham, with abun- 
dant cheerfulness; “ but 1 see the natural way out of it. Perhaps 
you don’t, dear Yolande; but I do, I know what will happen. 
You will have a house and home of your own: and your father will 
be very glad to see you happy and settled; and he will give proper 
attention to Parliament while Parliament is sitting ; but when Parlia- 
ment is not sitting then he will come to you for relaxation and 
amusement, and you must have a salmon-rod ready for him in the 
spring, and in the autumn nice luncheons to be sent up the hill, 
where he will be with the others. Now isn’t that something to look 
forward to?” 

“ Yes — but — a house of my own?” the girl said, bewildered. 

“Of course, when you marry, my dear. That is the obvious so- 
lution of the whole difliculty ; it will put every one in a proper 
position.” 

She said neither yea nor nay; there was no alfectation of maiden 
coyness; ro protest of any kind. But her eyes w^ere distant and 
thoughtful; not sad exact'lv; but seemingly tilled with memories — 
probably memories of her own futi’e schemes and hopes. 

That afternoon they came in sight of some walls and a minaret or 
two, half hidden by groves of palms lying along the high banks of 
the river; and these they were told belonged to Merhadi; but the 
Reis had had orders to moor the dahabeah by the shore at some 
short distance from the town, so that the English party should not 
be quartered among the confusion and squalor further along. 
The consequence of this w^as that very soon they found themselves 
the practical owmers of a portion of Africa which seemed to be un- 
inhabited; for when the whole party got ashore (with much ex- 
citement and eager interest), and waded" across the thick sand, and 
then entered a far stretching wood of acacia-trees, they could find 
no trace of human occupation; the only living things being an 
abundance of hoopoes — the beautiful red -headed and crested birds 
were so tame that one could have filing one’s cap at them — and 
wood-pigeons, the latter of a brilliant blue and gray and white. 
But by and by, as they wandered along— highly pleased to be on 
shore again, and grateful for the shelter of the trees — they met a 
slow procession of Arabs, with donkeys and camels wending their 
way through the dry rushes anChot sand; and, as the animals were 
heavily laden, they made no doubt that the natives were carrying in 
farm produce to sell at Merhadj. Then, when they returned to the 
dahabeah, they found a note from Ismat Etfendi, written in excel- 
lent Eng’Ish, saying that his father had just returned from the inte- 


Yolande. 83 

rior, and that they both would do themselves the honor of paying a 
visit the following morning. 

But what to do till dinner-time — now that the dahabeah was no 
longer moving past the familiar features of the Nile? Ahmed came 
to the rescue. The chef was anxious to have some pigeons; would 
the gentlemen go ashore and shoot some for him? The gentlemen 
flatly refused to go and kill those half-tame creatures; but they dis 
covered that Ahmed could shoot a little; so they lent him a gun, 
and offered to beat the wood for him. It was an occupation, at 
least. And so the two women were left by themselves again, with 
nothing before them but the choosing of a costume for dinner, and 
the donning of the same. 

It was an opportunity not to be missed, and yet Mrs. Graham was 
terribly nervous. 8he had an uncomfortable suspicion all day that 
she had uot been quite ingenuous in her conversation of the morn- 
ing; and she was anxious to confess, and clear her mind; and yet 
afraid of the effects of her confession. But Yolande had spoken so 
reasonably and sensibly; she seemed to recognize the situation; why 
should she be startled? 

For good or ill, she determined to plunge in mediae res ; and she 
adopted a gay air, though her fingers were rather shaky. She put 
her arm within Yolande’s arm. They were slowly walking up and 
down the upper declt, under the awning. They could just see the 
gentlemen of the party, along with Ahmed, disappearing into the 
grove of dark green acacias. 

“ Yolande, I am a wicked woman,” she said, suddenly. “ Hear 
my confession. I was not quite frank with you this morning: and 
1 can’t rest till 1 have told you. The fact is, my dear child, when I 
spoke to you about the possibility of your marrying, T knew of the 
wishes of one or two others; and I ought to have told you. And 
now 1 wish to confess everything; and ymu will forgive me if 1 say 
anything to offend or alarm you ” 

” About my marrying?” said the girl, looking rather frightened. 
” Oh, no; I do not wish to know. I do not wish to know of any- 
thing that any one has said to you.” 

” Then you have guessed?” 

The mere question was an intimation. The girl’s face flushed; 
and she said, with an eager haste, and in obvious trouble, 

“ Why should we speak of any such thing? Dear Mrs. Graham, 
why should I be afraid of the future? No; 1 am not afraid.” 

” But there are others to be considered — one, at least, whose hopes 
have been clear enough to the rest of us for some time back. Dear- 
est Yolande, am I speaking too much now?” 

She stood still, and took both the girl’s hands in hers. 

‘‘Am 1 telling you too much? Or am 1 telling you what you 
have guessed already? 1 hope 1 haven’t spoken too soon!— if I have 
done anything indiscreet, don’t blame him ! I could not talk to you 
just like sister to sister, and have this knowledge in the background, 
and be hiding it like a secret from you. ” 

Yolande drew her hands away; she seemed scarcely able to find 
utterance. , 

” Oh, no, Mrs. Graham— it is a mistake— it is all a mistake— you 
don’t mean what you say ” 


yOLAKDE. 


84 

“ But indeed I do!” the other said, eagerly. “ Dearest Yolande, 
how can I help wishing to have you for a sister? But if 1 hav^e re- 
vealed the secret too soon, why, you must forget it altogether, and 
let Archie speak for himself. But you know I do wish it. 1 can’t 
help telling you. I have been thinking of what we might be to each 
other up there in the Highlands; for 1 never had a sister, and my 
mother died when I was quite young, like yours, dear Yolande. 
You can’t tell how pleased I was when Archie began to — to show 
you attention; and I made sure you must have seen how anxious he 
was to please you ” 

She paused for a second here; but there was no answer; the girl 
was too bewildered. 

” Why, Jim would be like a big brother to you — you can’t tell how 
fond he is of you; and your father approving, too.” 

The girl started as if she had been struck, and her face became 
quite white. 

” Did you say — that my father wished it?” she said, slowly. 

“ Oh yes — oh yes!” Mrs. Graham said. “What more natural? 
What should he wish for more than to see you happily married ? 1 
wouldn’t say that he would be more free to attend to public alfairs 
— I wouldn’t say that was his reason, though it might be one 
of several reasons; but I can very well understand his being 
pleased at the notion of seeing you married and comfortably 
settled among people who would make much of you — as I 
really and truly think we should. Now, dear Yolande, don’t say 
an 5 dhing in haste. 1 am not asking ypu on behalf of Archie — 1 am 
telling you a secret to clear my own niind. Ah, if you only knew 
how glad we should be to have you among us!” 

The girl’s e 5 ’^eshad slowly filled with tears; but she would notown 
it. She had courage. She looked her companion fair in the face, 
as if to say, “ Do you think 1 am crying? I am not.” But when 
she smiled, it was a very strange sort of smile — and very near crying. 
“ Then if it is a secret, let it remain a secret, dear Mrs. Graham,” 
said she, with a sort of cheerfulness. “ Perhaps it will always re- 
main one; and no harm done. 1 did not know that my papa wished 
that; 1 did not suspect it No; how could I? When we have 
talked of the years to come, that was not the arrangement that 
seemed best.” 

She paused for awhile. 

” Now I remember what you were saying in the morning. And 
you knew then, also, that my papa wished it?” 

“ Oh, yes, certainly— not that he has spoken directly to me ” 

But Yolande was scarcely listening. Rapid pictures were passing 
before her— pictures that had been suggested by Mrs. Graham her- 
self. And Yolande’s father, not her future husband, was the cen- 
tral figure of them. 

Then she seemed to throw aside these speculations with an effort 
of will. 

“Come,” she said, more cheerfully, “is it not time to dress? 
We will put away that secret — it is lust as if you had never spoken 
—it is all away in the air— vanished. And you must not tell your 
brother that you have been talking to me; for you know, dear Mrs. 


YOI;AKDE. 


85 

Graham, he has been very kind to me, and I would not give him 
pain — oh, not for anything ” 

“ My dear Yolande, if he thought ther3 was a chance of your say- 
ing yes, he would be out of his senses with joy!” exclaimed the 
other. 

” Oh, but that is not to he thought of,” said the girl, with quite a 
practical air. ” It is not to be thought of at all as yet. M}" papa 
has not said anything to me. And a little talking between us two— 
what is that? Nothing — air — it goes away; why should we remem- 
bpr it?” 

Mrs Graham could not understand this attitude at all. Yolande 
had said neither yes nor no; she seemed neither elated nor depressed; 
and she certainly had not— as most young ladies are supposed to do, 
when they have decided upon a refusal — expressed any compassion 
for the unfortunate suitor. Moreover, at dinner, Mrs. Graham ob- 
served that more than once Yolande regarded the yoiing Master of 
Lynn with a very attentive scrutiny. It was not a conscious, fur- 
tive scrutiny; it was calm and unabashed. And Mrs. Graham also 
noticed that when her brother looked up to address Yolande, and 
met her eyes, those eyes were not hastily withdrawn in maiden Con- 
fusion, but rather answered his look with a pleased friendliness. 
She was certainly studying him, the sister thought. 


CHAPTER XIV 

A SETTLEMENT. 

Next morning there was much hurrying to and fro on board the 
dahabeah, in anticipation of the visit of the Governor; so that Mrs. 
Graham hud no chance of having an extended talk with her brother. 
Nevertheless she managed to convey to him a few covert words of 
information and counsel. 

“ Archie,” said she, ” I have spoken to Yolande— I have hinted 
something to her.” 

” No!” he said, looking rather frightened. 

” Oh, you need not be much alarmed,” she said, with a signifi- 
cant smile. ‘‘ Rather the other way. She seems quite to know 
how you have wished to be kind and attentive to her— quite sensible 
of it, in fact; and when I hinted something ” 

” She did not say ‘ no ’ outright?” he interrupted, eagerly; and 
there was a flush of gladness on his face. 

His sister glanced around. 

” I thought there could be no harm if I told her that Jim and I 
would like to have her for a sister,” she answered, demurely. 

“ And she did not say ‘ no ’ outright?” he repeated. 

” Well,” Mrs. Graham said, after a second, “ I am not going to 
tell you anything more. It would not be fair. It is jmur business; 
not mine. I’m out of it now. I nave intermeddled quite enough. 
But I don’t think she hates you. And she seems rather pleased to 
think of living in the Highlands, with her father having plenty of 
amusement there, you know; and perhaps she might ba brought to 
consider a permanent arrangement of that kind not so undesirable; 


yOLANDE. 


86 

and— and, well, you’d better see for yourself. As 1 say, Jim and 1 
will be very glad to have her for a sister; and I can’t say more, can I?” 

She could not say more then, at all events; for at this moment 
Colonel Graham appeared on the upper deck with the intelligence 
that the Governor’s barge was just then coining down the river. 
Mr. Winterbourne and Yolande were instantly summoned from be- 
low; some further disposition of chairs and divans was made; some 
boxes of cigarettes were sent for; and presently the sound of oars 
alongside announced the arrival of the chief notables of Merhadj. 

The Master of Lynn saw and heard little of what followed ; he 
was far too busy with the glad and bewildering prospects that his 
sister’s obscure hints had placed before him. And again and again 
he glanced at Yolande, timidly, and yet with an increasing wonder. 
He began to ask himself whether it was really true that his sister 
liad spoken to her. The girl betrayed no consciousness, no embar- 
rassment; she had greeted him on that morning just as on other 
mornirigg; at this moment she was regarding the arrival of those 
grave officials with an interest which seemed quite oblivious to his 
presence. As for him, he looked on impatiently. He wished it was 
all over. He wished to have some private speech with her; to have 
some inquiry of her eyes — surely her eyes would make some tell-tale 
confession? — and in a vague kind of way he grew to think that the 
Governor's son, Ismat Effendi, who was acting as interpreter, and 
wlio spoke English excellently, addressed a little too much of the 
conversation to the two ladies. Moreover, it was all very well for 
him, on coming on board, to shake hands with Mrs. Graham, for he 
had Snown her in India; but why with Yolande? 

The Governor — a corpulent and sallow-faced old gentleman who 
looked like a huge frog — and Ihs companions satin solemn state; 
while young Ismat, with much ^ace of manner and remarkably elo- 
quent eyes, hoped that the visitors were comfortable on board the 
dahabeah, and so forth. He was 'a well-dressed young gentleman; 
his black frock coat, white waistcoat and red tarboosh were all of 
the newest and smartest; and his singularly small feet were incased 
in boots of brilliant polish. The Master of Lynn considered him a 
coxcomb, and also a Frenchified semi-theatrical coxcomb. But the 
womenfolk liked his pleasant manners and his speaking eyes; and 
when he said that he had never been to England, but intended to go 
the next year, Mrs. Graham made him definitely promise that he 
would pay them a visit to Inverstroy. 

“ And Miss Winterbourne,” said the young gentleman with the 
swarthy face and the brilliant white teeth, “ does she live in Scot- 
land also?” 

” Well, no,” said Mrs. Graham, placidly; “ but 1 hope yo^ will 
find her there when you come. We want her to go back with us 
when we go back; and if she likes her first visit perhaps she will 
come again. 1 hope you will find her with us.” 

” And I also, madame, hope to have the felicity of the visit that 
you propose,” said he, ” if politics will permit me.” 

He directed an inquhing, and rather curious, glance at Colonel 
Graham. 

” You did not hear anything very remarkable in Cairo, sir?” 

” Well, nothing remarkable,” said the stout soldier, “Lots of 



Yolaxdt:. 8? 

rumors. Always plenty of that in politics.. Mostly lies. At the 
Consulate they thought we were safe enough. ’’ 

The young man turned to his father, who was silently and sol* 
emnly sipping his^cofifee, apparently quite uninterested in what 
was going on, and spoke in Arabic to him for a second or two. 
The old g(!ntleman appeared to grunt assent. 

“My father says he will have much delight' in sending two or 
three soldiers to accompany your party if you are making excursions 
into the interior. There is no danger, except that some bad men 
will try to rob, when they can. Or if you will permit me, if you 
will have the grace to permit me, I will accompany you myself.” 

“ But to take up so much of your time ” said pretty Mrs. Gra- 

ham, with one of her most pleasant smiles. 

He waved his hand in a deprecatory fashion. 

“ It will be too charming for me. Perhaps your dragoman does 
not know the district as well as I. Do you permit' me? Shall I 
come to-morrow, with everything prepared?” 

“Look here, Mr. Isniat.” said Colonel Graham; “you’d better 
come along and dine with us this evefling; then we can talk it over. 
In the meantime we can’t keep your father and the other gentlemen 
waiting while we discuss our rambles. Will you please tell his Ex- 
cellency once more how much obliged we are; and honored by his 
visit; and that we will do ourselves the pleasure of coming to see 
him at Merhadj to-morrow, if that will suit his Excellences con- 
venience?” 

This was the final arrangement — that young Ismat Etfendi ^as to 
come along to dinner in tlie evening; a prospect which seemed to 
please him highly. Very soon after the grave company was seated 
in the stern of the barge; and the big oars were once more at work. 
The dahabeah returned to its normal state of silence; the little party 
of Europeans were as:aiii left to their own society; and the Master 
of Lynn, a little anxious and excited, and almost fearing to meet 
Yolande’s eyes, and yet drawn toward her neighborhood by a secret 
spell, declined to go ashore with the other two gentlemen, and re- 
mained with his sister and Yolande in the Belvedere, in the cool 
shade of the canvas awning. 

No; she betrayed not tlie slightest etobarrassment at his sitting 
thus quite near her; it was he who was nervous, and awkward in 
his speech. She was engaged in some delicate needlework; from 
time to time she spread it out on her lap to regard it; and all the 
time she was chatting freely with Mrs. Graham about the recent 
visitors and their grave demeanor, their almost European costume, 
their wonderfully small feet, and so forth. 

“ Why do you not go ashore?” she said, turning with frank eyes 
to the Master of Lynn. “ It is so interesting to see the strange 
birds, the strange plants.” 

“ It is cooler on the river,” said he. 

He was wondering whether his sister would get up and go away 
and leave them together; and he was half afraid she would and half 
afraid she would not. But at all events he was now resolved that 
on the first opportunity he would speak to Yolande himself. He 
would not trust to any go-between. Was it not enough that she 


YOLANDE. 


88 

had had some intimation made to her of his ■wishes and hopes, and 
yet showed no signs of fear at his approach? 

The midday went by, and he found no chance of addressing her. 
His sister and she sat logelher, and sewed an^ chatted, or stopped 
to watch some passing boat and listen to the boatmen singing a long 
and melancholy chorus to the clanking of the oars. At lunchtime, 
Mr. Winterbourne and Colonel Graham turned up. Then in the 
afternoon the whole of them got into a boat, and were rowed away 
to a long and flat and sandy island on the other side of the Nile, 
which tliey explored in a leisurely way. And then back again to 
the dababeah for a draught of cold tea, in the welcome shade of'the 
awning. 

It was not until the end of the day that the long-looked-for op- 
portunity arrived: indeed, nearly every one had gone below to get 
ready for dinner; but Yolaude had lingered about, to watch llie 
coming over of the twilight. It was a strange enough sight ia its 
way. For after the yellow color hnd died out of the bank of beard- 
ed corn above the river’s edge, and while the strip of acacia-trees 
over that again had grown solemn and dark against the clear, pallid, 
blue gray sky of the south, far away in the northwestern heavens 
there still lingered a glow of warmer light, and a few clouds high up 
had caught a saffron tinge from the sinking sun. It seemed as if 
they here were shut in with the dark, while far away in the north — 
ov^-r the Surrey lanes, and up among the Westmoreland waters, and 
out amid the distant Hebridean Isles, the summer evening was still 
fair and shining. It led one to dream of home. The imagination 
took wings. It was pleasant to think of those beautiful and glow- 
ing scenes, here wdiere the gloom of the silent desert was gathering 
all around. 

She was standing by the rail of the deck; and, when the others 
had gone, he quietly went over to her, and began talking to her — 
about the Highlands mostly, and of the long, clear twilights there, 
and how he hoped she would accept his sister’s invitation to go back 
home with them when they returned to England. And when she 
said something very pretty about the kindness of all of them to her, 
he spoke a little more warmly, and asked if there was any wonder? 
People got to know one another intimately through a constant com- 
panionship like this; and got to know and admire and love beauti- 
ful qualities of disposition and mind. And then he told her it 
would not be honest if he did not confess to her that he was aware 
that his sister had spoken to her — it was best to be Trank; and he 
knew she was so kind she would not be angry if there had been any 
indiscretion; and he begged for her forgiveness if she had been in 
any way offended. He spoke in a very frank and manly way; and 
she let him speak, for she was quite incapable of saying anything; 
her fingers were working nervously with a small pocket-book siie 
held, and she had turned partly away, dreading to lift her eyes, and 
yet unable to go until she had answered him somehow. Then she 
managed to say, rather hurriedly and breathlessly, 

“ Oh, no, I am not oftended. Why? It is — a great honor — I — 1 
knew it was your sister’s kindness and friendship that made her 
speak to me — please let me go away now ” 

He put his hand on her arm, unwittingly. 


YOLANDE. 


89 

But may 1 hope, Yolande? May 1 hope?" he said, and he 
stooped down, to listen for the faintest word. " 1 don’t want you 
to pledg(j yourself altogether now. Give me time. May 1 try to 
win you? Do you think some time — some time of your own choos- 
ing— as far ahead as vou may wish— you will consent? May 1 hope 
for it? May 1 look forward to it — some day?" 

" Oh, but I cannot tell you — 1 cannot tell you now," she said, in 
the same breathless way. " I am sorry if I have given any pain — 
any anxiety — but — some other time I will try to talk to you — or my 
papa will tell you — but not now — you have always been so kind to 
me that I ask it from you " 

She stole away in the gathering darkness, her head bent down: 
she had not once turned her eyes to him. And he remained there 
for a time, scarcely knowing what he had said or , what she had 
answered; but vaguely and happily conscious that she had not, at 
all events, refused him. Was it not much? He was. harassed by 
all kinds of doubts, surmises, hesitations; but surely prevailing over 
these was a buoyant hope, a touch of triumph even? He would 
fain have gone away for a long stroll in the dusk, to have reasoned 
out his hopes and guesses with himself; but here was dinner-time 
approaching; and young Ismat was coming; and he, that is, the 
Master of Lynn, began to have the consciousness that Yolande in a 
measure belonged to him, and that he must be there. He went 
down the steps with a light and a proud heart. Yolande was his, 
he almost felt assured. How should she regard him, when next 
they met? 

And indeed at dinner there was no longer any of that happy 
serenity of manner on her part that had so puzzled him before. 
Her self-consciousness and embarrassment were so great as to be 
almost painful to witness; she never lifted her eyes; she ate and 
drank next to nothing; when she pretended to be listening to Ismat 
Effendi s descriptions of the troubles in the Soudan, any one who 
knew must have seen that she was a quite perfunctory listener and 
probably understood but little of what was being said. But then 
no one knew that he had spoken but liimself; and he strove to con- 
vince Ij^r that he was not regarding her by entering eagerly into his 
conversation about the false prophet; and though now and again 
her trouble and confusion perplexed him — along witli the recollec- 
tion that she had been so anxious to say nothing definite — still, on 
the whole, triit^nph and rejoicing were in his heart , And how beau- 
tiful she looked, even with the pensive face cast down. No wonder 
young Ismat hbd admired her that morning; the very Englishness 
of her appearance must have struck him — the tall stature, the fine 
complexion, the ruddy-golden hair, and the clear, proud, calm, self- 
confident look of the maidenly eyes. This was a bride fit for a 
home-coming at Lynn Towers! 

But, alasl Yolande’s self-confidence seemed to have strangely for- 
saken her that evening. When they were all up on deck, taking 
their cofl^ee in the red glow shed by the lanterns, she got hold of her 
father, and drew him aside, into the darkness. 

" What is it, Yolande?" said he, in surprise. 

She took hold of his hand ; both hers were trembling. 

" 1 have something to tell you, papa-something serious." 


YOLANDE. 


90 

Then he knew; and for a moment his heart sank; but he main- 
tained a gay demeanor. Had he not reasoned the whole matter out 
with himself? He had foreseen this crisis; he had nerved himself 
by anticipation. 

Oh, I know. I know already, Yolande,” said he, very cheer- 
fully. “ Do you think 1 can’t spy secrets? And of course you 
come to me, with 3 ^our hands trembling; and you think you have 
something dreadful to confess; whereas it is but the most ordinary 
and commonplace thing in the world. You need not make any 
confession. Young Leslie has spoken to me — quite right; very 
right; 1 like frankness; 1 consider him a very fine young fellow. 
How what have you got to say — only 1 won’t listen if you are going 
to make a fuss about it and destroy my nervous system, for 1 tell 
you it is the simplest and most ordinary affair in the world.” 

” Then you know everything — you approve of it, papa — it is your 
wish?” she said, bravely. 

“My wish?” he said; “what has my wish to do with it, you 
stupid creature!” But then he added, more gently: “ of course you 
know, Yolande, 1 should like to see you married and settled. Yes, 
1 should like to see that; I should like to see you in a fixed home, 
and not liable to all the changes and chances of the life that you 
and I have been living. It w^ould be a great relief to my mind. 
And then it is natural and right. It is not for a young girl to be a 
rolling stone like that; and, iDesides, it couldn’t last: that idea about 
our always going on traveling w^ouldn’t answ^er. So, whenever 
you think of marrying; whenever you think you will .be happy 
m choosing a husband — just now. to- morrow, or any time — don’t 
come to me with a breathless voice, and with trembling hands 
as if you had done some wrong, or as if 1 was going to object, for 
to see you happy would be happiness enough for me; and as for our 
society together, well, you know, 1 could pay the people of Slag- 
pool a little more attention, and have some more occupation that 
way: and then you, instead of having an old and frail and feeble 
person like me to take care of you, you would have some one whose 
years would make him a fitter companion for you, as is quite right 
and proper and natural. And now do you understand?” 

“ Oh, yes, I think so, papa.” said she, quite brightly; and she re- 
garded him with grateful and loving eyes. “ And you would have 
ever so much more time for Parliament, would you not?” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ And you would come and see me sometimes; and go shooting 
and fishing: and take a real holiday — not in towns and hotels?” 

“ Oh, don’t be afraid. 1 will bother the life out of you. And 
there are always fishings and shootings to be got somehow.” 

“ And you would be quite happy, then?” 

“ If you were, I should be,” said he; and really this prospect 
pleased him so much that his ciieerfulness now’^ was scarcely forced, 
“Always on this distinct and clear understanding,” he added, 
“ that, when we are coming back from the shooting, you will come 
out to meet us and walk back wdth us the last half mile.” 

“ 1 should be dressing for dinner, papa,” she said. “ And just 
worrying my head off to think what would please you.” 


YOLAKDE. 


91 


“You will be dressing to please your ^sband, you foolish creat- 
ure, not me.” 7 A ^ 

“ He won’t care as much as you, papa.'’ Then sh^radded, aft^r 
a second : “ I should get the London newspapers, yes?.^ Quite easily? 
Do you know, papa, what Colonel Graham beli«iV‘e^?^that they itfe 
going to take one of the extreme Liberals into the Ministry, to ple^e 
the northern towns.” ^ 

“ But what has that got to do with you, child?” said he, with a 
laugh. “Very likely they may. But you didn’t bring me over 
here to talk politics?” 

“ But even if you were in the Government, papa, you would have 
your holiday-time all the same,” she said, thoughtfully. 

“la member of the Government?” said he. “You ma.y as well 
expect to hear of me being sent to arrest the false prophet in the 
Soudan. Come away, then, Yolande; your secret is not a secret; 
so you need not trouble about it; and now that I have expounded 
my views on the situation, you may as well go and call to Ahmed 
that 1 want another cup of coffee.” 

And then he hesitated. 

“ You have not said yes or no, yet, Yolande?” 

“Oh, no; how could I, until 1 knew what you might think?” 
said she, and she regarded him now with frank and unclouded eyes. 
“ How could 1? It might not have been agreeable to your wishes. 
But 1 was told that you would approve. At first — well, it is a sud- 
den thing to give up visions you have formed, but when you see it 
is not practicable and reasonable, what is it but a small struggle? 
No; other plans present themselves — oh, yes, 1 have much to think 
of now, that looks very pleasant to anticipate. Very much to look 
forward to; to hope for.” 

He patted her lightly on the shoulder. 

“ And if you make half as good a wife, Yolande, as you have been 
a daughter, you will do pretty well.” 

They went back to their friends, their absence scarcely having 
been noticed; for Ismat Etfendi was a fluent and interesting talker. 
And whether Mr. Winterbourne had been playing a part or not in 
his interview with Yolande, that cheerfulness of his soon left him. 
He sat somewhat apart, and silent; his eyes were fixed on the deck; 
he was not listening. Yolande herself brought him the coffee; and 
she put her hand on his shoulder, and stood by him, then he bright- 
ened up somewhat. But he was thoughtful and distraught for the 
whole of the evening, except when he happened to be spoken to by 
Yolande, and then he would summon up some of his customary 
humor, and petulantly complain about her un-English idioms. 

And she? Her anxiety and nervousness seemed to have vanished. 
It is true, she rather avoided the Master of Lynn, and rarely vent- 
ured to look in his direction; but she was in good spirits, cheerful, 
practical, self-possessed; and when Ismat Effendi, on going away, 
apologized to her for having talked tedious politics all the evening, 
she said, with a charming smile, 

“No; not at all. How can politics be tedious? Ah, but we will 
have our revenge, perhaps, in Scotland. Mrs. Graham says that in 
their house it is nothing but deer that is talked of all the evening; 
that will not interest you?” 


92 


YOLANBE, 


“1 shall rejoice to he.allqwed to try,” said the polite young 
^ an^hen he sliiook hands with her, and bowed very low. 



‘During tlie^est of the evening, the Master of Lynn, seeing that 
Y^lande se0m^"lKt“tonger in any trouble, kept near her, with some 
va^tWylidfie that she would herself speak, or lhat he might have 
some chance of reopening the subject that engrossed his mind. And 
indeed, when the chance arrived, and he timidly asked her if she 
had not a word of hope for him, she spoke very frankly, though 
with some little nervousness, no doubt. She made a little apology, 
in very pretty and stammering phrases, for not having been able to 
give him an answer; but since then, she said, she had spoken to her 
father, without whose approval she could not have decided. 

Then you consent, Yolande— you will be my wife!” he said, in 
a low and eager voice upsetting in his haste all the continuity of 
those hesitating sentences. 

” But is it wise?” said she, still with her eyes cast down. ” Per- 
haps you will regret ” 

He'took her hand into his, and held it tight. 

” This has been a lucky voyage for me,” said he, and that was 
all that he had a chance of saying just then; but it was enough. 

Colonel Graham hea'd the news that same evening. He was a 
man of solid and fixed ideas. 

‘‘ A very good thing, too,” said he to his wife. ” A very good 
thing. Now they’ll take the sheep off Allt-nam-ba; and make Cor- 
rievreak the sanctuary. Nothing could have happened better.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


NEW PLANS. 


Eaely next morning, and long before any one on board the daha- 
beah was awake, Mr. Winterbourne was seated in the quiet littU 
saloon writing the following letter: — 


“ Near Merhadj, on the Nile, May 13th. 


” Dear Shortlands, — I have news for you. You will be glad 
to learn that Yolande is engaged to be married — 1 think with every 
prospect of happiness; and you will also be glad to know that I 
heartily approve, and that so far from viewing the coming change 
with dread, 1 rather welcome it; and look on it as the final removal 
of one of the great anxieties of my life. Sometimes 1 wonder at 
myself, though. Yolande and I have been so much to each other. 
And I dare say 1 shall feel her absence for awhile. But what does 
it matter? My life has been broken and wasted; what remains of it 
is of little consequence, if her life be made the fuller, happier and 
more secured; and 1 think there is every chance of that. After all, 
this definite separation will be better than a series of small separa- 
tions, haunted by continual fears. She will be removed from all the 
possibilities you know of. As for me, what does it matter, as I say? 
And so I have come to regard the handing over of my Yolande to 
somebody else as not such a hard matter after all; nay, lam looking 


YOLAKDE. 


93 


forward to it with a kind of satisfaction. When I can.see her 
securely married and happily settled in a home, that will be enough 
for me; and may be I may have a chance from time to time of re- 
garding the pride and pleasure of the young house- mistress. 

“ The accepted suitor is Mrs. Graham’s brother(l thinkyou know 
we came away with Colonel Graham of Inverstroy, and his wife?), 
and the only son of Lord Lynn. I have had a good oppori unity of 
studying his character; and you may imagine that, when 1 saw a 
prospect of this happening, I regarded him very closely and jeal- 
ously. Well, 1 must say that his qualities bore the scrutiny well. 1 
think he is an honest and honorable young fellow; of fair abilities; 
very pleasant and courteous in manner (what I especially like in him 
is the consideration and respect he pays to women, which seems to 
be unusual nowadays; he doesn’t stand and stare at them with a 
toothpick in his mouth); 1 hear he is one of the best deerstalkers in 
the Highlands, and that speaks well for his hardihood and his tem- 
perance; he is not brilliant, but he is good-natured, which is of 
more importance in the long run; he is cheerful and high-spirited, 
which naturally follows from his excellent constitution ; deerstalk- 
ing does not tend to congestion of the liver and bilious headache; he 
is good-looking, but not vain; and he is scrupulously exact in money 
matters. Indeed, he is almost too exact, if criticism were to be so 
minute, for it looks just a little bit odd, when we are playing carda 
for counters at threepence a dozen, to see the heir of the house of 
Lynn so very particular in claiming his due of twopence-halfpenny. 
But this little weakness is forgivable; to be prudent and economical 
is a very good failing in a young man; and then you must remem- 
ber his training. The Leslies have been poor for several generations; 
but they have steadily applied themselves to the retrieving of their 
condition and the bettering of the estate; and it is only by the exer- 
cise of severe economy that they now stand in so good a position. 
So, doubtless, this young fellow has acquired the habit of bthig 
particular about trifles; and 1 don’t object; from my point of view 
it is rather praiseworthy; Yolande’s fortune — and she shall have the 
bulk of what I have — will be placed in good and careful hands. 

“ So now all this is well and happily settled; and, as every , one bids 
fair to be content, you will ask what more we have to do than to*Iook 
forward to the wedding, and the slippers, and the handfuls of rice. 
Well, it is the old story; and you, as an old friend, will understand. 
That is why I write to you, after a wakeful enough night — for the sake 
of unburdening myself, even though I can’t get a word of your sturdy 
counsel at this great distancd. As I say. it is the old story. For the 
moment you delude yourself into the belief that the moment of peiil 
and anxiety is past: everything is safe now for the future; whn 
Yolande’s life made secure and happy, what matters what happens 
elsewhere? And the next moment new anxieties present themselves; 
the old dread returns; doubts whether you have acted for the best; 
and fears about this future that seemed so bright. There is one 
point about these Leslies that I forgot to mention: they are all of 
them apparently— and young Leslie especially — very proud of the 
famiW name and jealous of the family honor. I do not wonder at 
it. They have every right to be; and it is rather a praiseworthy 
quality. But now you will understand, old friend, the perplexity 1 


94 


TOLAN-DE. 


am in — afraid to make any revelation that might disturb the seltle- 
ment which seems so fortunate a one, and yet afraid to transfer to 
the future all those risks and anxieties that have made the past so 
bitter and so teft’ible to me. 1 do not know what to do. Perhaps I 
should have stated the whole matter plainly to the young man when 
he came and asked permission to propose to Yolande; but then 1 
was thinking, not of that at all, but only of her happiness. It 
seemed so easy and safe a way out of all that old trouble. And why 
should he have been burdened with a secret which he dared not reveal 
to her? I thought of Yolande being taken away to that Highland 
home — living content and happy all through her life; and it did not 
occur to me to imperil that prospect by any disclosure of what could 
concern neither her nor him. .^ut now I have begun to torture my- 
self in the old way again; and in spite of myself conjure up all sorts 
of ghastly anticipations. The fit does not last long, if you were 
here, with your firm way of looking at things, possibl}'^ T could drive 
away these imaginings altogether; but you will understand me when 
1 say that 1 could wish to see Yolande married to morrow and car- 
ried away to the Highlands. Then I could meet my own troubles 
well enough.” 

He was startled by the rustling of a dress — he looked up, and there 
was Yolande herself, regarding him with a bright and happy and 
smiling face, in which there was a trifle of surprise, and also perhaps 
a faint flush of self-consciousness, for it was but the previous even- 
ing that she had told him of the engagement. But surely one glance 
of that face — so young, and cheerful, and confident — was enough to 
dispel those dark forebodings. The page of life lying open there 
was not the one on which to write down prognostications of trouble 
and sorrow. His eyes lit up with pleasure; the glooms of the night 
were suddenly forgotten. 

” Writing? Already?” she said, as she went forward and kissed 
him. 

” You are looking very well this morning, Yolande,” he said, re- 
garding her. ” The silence of the boat does not keep you from 
sleeping, apparently, as it sometimes does with older folk. But 
where te your snood? — the color suits your hair.” 

” Oh, I am not in the Highlands yet,” she said, lightly. ” Do 
you know the song Mrs. Graham sings? — 

It’s I would give my silken snood 
To see the gallant Grahams come hame. 

That was in the days of their banishment.” 

‘‘But what have you to do with the home-coming of the Gra- 
hams, Yolande?” her father said, to tease her. ‘‘You will be a 
Leslie, not a Graham.” 

She changed the topic, quickly. 

‘‘ To whom are you writing?” 

*‘ To John Shortlands.” 

” May 1 see?” 

Sh^ would^ have taken up the letter had he not hastily interposed. 

‘‘ Ah, it is about business. Very well. But may 1 put in a 
postscript?” 


YOLAiirD'E. 95 

“ What do you want to write to Mr. Sliortlands about?"’ her father 
said, in amazement. 

“ Perhaps it will be better for 3^011 to write, then. I was going to 
ask him to visit us at Allt-nam-ba.” 

“Well, now, Yolande, that is a most excellent idea!’’ he ex- 
claimed. “ You are really becoming quite a sensible and practical 
person. We shall want another gun. John Shortlands is just the 
man.’’ 

“We can give him,’’ she said, sedately, “ the bedroom over the 
dining-room; that will be furthest away from the noise of the ken- 
nels.’’ 

Then he stared at her, 

“ What on earth Ho j^ou know about the bedroom over the dining- 
room, or the kennaTs eijther?’’ 

“ Mr. Lesli^,'’’.said She, Vvilh a momentary flush, “ gave me a plan 
of the house— there it is, papa. Oh, you shall haVe no trouble— it is 
all quite easily arranged ” 

She took out a piece of paper from her note book, unfolded it, and 
put it before him. 

“ There,’’ said she, with a practical air, “ is a very good room — 
that looks down the glen — that is for you. That one is for a visitor 
— yes, Mr. Shortlands. if he will come — so that he shall not be dis- 
turbed by the dogs. That one for me ’’ 

“ But why should you be disturbed by the dogs?’’ 

“Me? Oh, no! I shall be used to it. Besides,’’ she said, with 
a laugh, “ there is nothing that will disturb me — no, not the cocka- 
too at the chS,teau that madamedid not keep more than three days.” 

“ But look here, Yolande,’’ said he, gravely, “ 1 am afraid 3^011 
are going to attempt too much. Why should you? Why should 
you bother? 1 can pay to get somebody to do all that. It’s all very 
well for Mrs. Graham, who has all her servants about her. trained lo 
help her. And she has been at the thing for years. But reallv, 
Yolande, you are taking too great a responsibility, and wh3' should 
you worry yourself when I can pay lo get it done? I dare say there 
are people who will provision a house as you provision a 3'acht, and 
take back the surplus stores. I don’t know; I suppose so. In any 
case, 1 can hire a housekeeper up there ’’ 

She put her hand on his mouth. 

“No — no— no,’’ she said, triumphantly. “Why, it is all ar- 
ranged — long ago — all settled — every small point. Do 1 not know 
wdiat cartridges to buy for you, for the rifle that Mr. Leslie is to lend 
you — do 1 not know even (hat small point?’’ 

She referred to her note-book. 

“There it is,’’ she said. “ Eley-Boxer, 500 bore, for Express 
rifle ’’ 

“ Well, you know, Yolande,’’. said he, to test her, “ I should 
have thought that when the Master proposed to lend me a rifle, he 
might have presented me with some cartridges, instead of letting 
me bu3" them for myself.’’ 

But she did not see the point. 

“ Perhaps he did not remember,’’ said she, lightly. “ Perhaps it 
Is not customary. No matter; I shall have them. It is very oblig- 


96 TOLAKDE. 

ing that you get the ''oan of the rifle. Quand on emprunte, on ne 
choisitpas.” 

“ Very well, then; go away, and let me finish my letter,” said he, 
good-naturedly. 

When she had gone, he turned to the sheet of paper that he had 
placed face downward, and continued: 

” When I had written the above, Yolande came into the saloon. 
She has just gone; and everything is changed. It is impossible to 
look at her — so hill of hope and life and cheerfulness — and be 
downcast about the future. It appears to me now that whatever 
trouble may befall will affect me only; and that that does not much 
matter; and that she will be living a happy life far away there, in 
the north, without a care. Is it not quite simple? She will no 
longer bear my name. Even if she were to come to London — 
though it is far from probable they will ever have a London house, 
even for the season — she will come either as the Hon. Mrs. Leslie or 
as Lady Lynn; and nothing could occur to alarm her or annoy her 
husband. Everything appears to have happened for the best; and 
1 don’t see how any contretemps could arise. When we return to 
England, the proposal is that Yolande should go on with the Gra- 
hams to Inverstroy, until I go down to a shooting that I have rented 
for the season from Lord Lynn — Allt-nam-ba is the name oi the 
place — and there we should be for the following three months. I 
don’t know how long the engagement of the young people is likely 
to last; but I should say they knew each other pretty well after be- 
ing constantly in each other’s society all this time; and I, of course, 
could wish for nothing better than a speedy marriage. Nor will 
there be any risk about that. Whether it takes place in the High- 
lands or at Weybridge, or anywhere else, there needs be no great 
ceremony or publicity; and I would gladly pay for a special license, 
which I could fairly do on the plea that it was merely a whim of 
m}'^ own. 

“ Now, as for yourself, dear old boy. Would you be surprised to 
hear that Y’olande has just suggested — entirely her own suggestion, 
mind — that you should come and pay us a visit at that shooting-box? 
She has even decided that you are to have the bedroom furthest re- 
moved from the noise of the kennels. I do hope you will be able to 
go down with me for the Twelfth. With decent shooting, and if 
the moor is in its normal state, they say we should get one thousand 
or twelve hundred brace; and besides that, the moor abuts on three 
deer forests, and there is no reason, moral or legal, why you 
shouldn’t have a shot at such ferce naturae as may stray on to your 
ground. And then (which is, perhaps, a more iriiportant thing — at 
all events, you would be interested, for I think you rather like the 
child), you would see what kind of a choice Y^olande has made. I 
hope 1 am not blinded by my own wishes; but it seems as if every- 
thing promised well. 

” There is another thing I want to mention to you before 1 close 
this screed— which more resembles the letters of our youth than the 
staccato notes they call letters nowadays. I have talked to you about 
this engagement as if it were a good arrangement— a solution, in 
fact, of a very awkward problem; but don’t think for a moment 


YOLAKDE. 


that, when I hey do marry, it will be anything but a marriage of 
affection. Mr. Leslie is not so poor that he needs to marry for 
money — on the contrary, the family are fairly well off now, and the 
estates almost free; and Yolande, on the other hhnd, is not the sort 
of creature to marry for title or social position. 1 saw that he was 
drawing toward her a long lime ago — as far back. Indeed, as the time 
of our arriving at Malta; and as for her, she madeafriend and com- 
panion of him almost at the beginning of the voyage in a way very 
unusual with her; for I have noticed again and again, in traveling, 
how extremely reserved she was when any one seemed anxious to 
make her acquaintance. No doubt the fact that he was Mrs. Gra- 
ham’s brother had something to do with it; for the Grahams were 
very kind to her at Oatlands — and have been ever since, 1 need 
hardly say. It will be very pleasant to her to have such agreeable 
neighbors when she marries. Mrs. Graham treats her Like a sister 
already; she will not be going among strange kinsfolk; nor among 
those likely to judge her harshly. 

“ So far we have enjoyed the trip very well; though, of course, to 
some of us its chief interest lay in this little drama that now points, 
1 hope, to a happy conclusion. We have had the whole Nile to 
ourselves — all the tourists gone long ago. The heat considerable; 
yesterday at midday it was 108 degrees in the shade; but it is a dry 
heat, and not debilitating. Of course we keep under shelter on the 
hottest days. 1 hear that the wine at dinner is of a temperature of 
90 degrees — there being no ice; so that we abstainers have rather the 
best of it, the water, kept in porous jars, being much cooler than 
that. We visit Merhadj to-day; and thereafter begin a series of ex- 
cursions in the neighborhood — if all goes well. But we heard some 
ugly rumors in Cairo; and may at any moment have to beat a swift 
retreat. 

“ As soon as I get back 1 shall begin my Parliamentary attendance 
again, and stick close to work until the end of the session; and I 
have no doubt the Government will give me plenty of chances of re- 
minding the Slagpool people of my existence. I wish you would 
liave a paragraph put in one of the London papers to the effect that 
the health of the member for Slagpool being now almost re-established 
by his visit to Egypt he will in a few weeks be able to take his place 
again in the House. Then the Slagpool papers would copy. They 
have been very forbearing with me, those people; 1 suppose it is be- 
cause I bully them. They would have turned out any more com- 
plaisant person long ago. 

“Yolande — still harping on his daughter, you will say; but it is 
only for a little while; soon 1 shall see and hear little enough of her 
— has undertaken the whole control and household management of 
the Hhooting-box; and I dare say she will make 'a hash of it; but I 
don’t think you will be severe on her, if, as I hope, you can come 
to us. It will be an occupation and amusement for her while she is 
in the Highlands; and 1 am very glad she is going to be with the 
Grahams during tliat interval. iShe wearied a good deal at Oatlands 
Park, though she tried not to show it; and as for e^er having her in 
Lonilon again — no, that is impo^sible. Mrs. Leslie or Lady Lynn 
may come and live in London when she i)Ieases — though 1 hope it 
may be many a year before she does so — but not Yolande Winter- 


98 


YOLANDE. 


bourne. Poor child, she little knows what kind of a shadow there 
is b( hind her fair and bright young life. I hope she will never 
know; I am beginning to believe now that she will never know; and 
this that has just happened ought to give one courage and strength. 

“ Do not attempt to answer this letter. The writing of it has 
been a relief to me. I may be back in town very shortly after you 
get it; for we shall only stay in Cairo a few days to get some things 
for Yolande that may be of service to her after. 

“ Always your friend, 

“ G. R. Winterbourne. 

“ P. S. — I should not wonder at all, if, before this letter gets posted 
even, that torment of fear and nervous apprehension should again 
get possession of me. I wish the marriage were well over; and I 
left alone in London.” 

The various noises throughout the dahabeahnow told him that all 
the people were stirring; he carefully folded this letter, and put it in 
his pocket (that he might read it over again at his leisure); and then 
he went ouljand up the stairs to the higher deck. Yolande was lean- 
ing with her elbows on the rail, gazing out on the wide waters and 
the far wastes of sand. She did not hear him approach; she was 
carelessly singing to herself some snatch of a French song, and 
doubtless not thinking at all how inappropriate the words were; — 

Oh6! . . . c’est la terre de France! 

Oh6 ! . . . Garyons ! bonne esp6rance ! 

Vois-tu, lAbas, sous le ciel gris 

AlTiorizon? . . . C’est le pays! 

Madelon, P6rine 
Toinon, Catherine,— 

” Yolande,” said he; and she started and turned round quickly. 

” Why, you don’t seem tp consider that you have taken a very 
serious step in life,” he said, with a smile. 

“Moi?” 

Then she recalled herself to her proper tongue. 

” I think it pleases every one; do you not?” she said, brightly; 
and there were no more forebodings possible when he found himself, 
as now, face to face with the shining cheerfulness of her eyes. 


CHAPTER XVI. ! 

OBEDIENCE. 

Yolande was right on that one point, at least; every one seemed 
greatly pleased. There was a new and obvious satisfaction permeat- 
ing all through this little party in exile. Mrs. Grahaln was more 
affectionate than ever — it was ” dear Yolande ” every other minute; 
Colonel Graham was assiduous in giving her perfectly idiotic advice 
about her housekeeping at Allt-nam-ba; and the Master of Lynn 
sought, but sought in vain, for opportunities of having little confi- 
dential talks with her. And the most light-hearted of them all was 
Yolande herself. Her decision once given, she seemed to 
herself no more about the future. Ever^ one was pleased/ 


YOLANDE. 


99 

she. She betrayed no concern ; she was not embarrassed by that in- 
crease of attention and kindness which, however slight, was easily 
recognizable and significant. To all appearance she was occupied, 
not in the least with her future duties as a wife, but solely and de- 
lightedly with preparations lor the approaching visit to Merhadj; 
and she was right thankful that they were going by water, for on 
two occasions they had found the sand of the river bank to be of a 
temperature of 140 degrees, in the sun, which was not very pleasant 
for womenfolk wearing thin-soled boots. 

When they had got into the stern of the big boat, and were being 
rowed up the wide, yellow-green river, her father could not help 
regarding this gayety of denieanor with an increasing wonder, and 
ev^en with a touch of apprehensive doubt. And then again he 
argued with himself. Why should she anticipate the. gravities of 
life? Why should she not be careless and light-hearted, and happy 
in the small excitements of the moment? Would it not be time to 
face the evil days, if there were to be any such, when they came? 
And why should they come at all? Surely some lives were destined 
for peace. Why should not the story of her life be like the scene 
now around them — placid, beautiful, and calm, with unclouded 
skies? To some that was given; and Yolande (he gradually con- 
vinced himself) would be one of those. To look at her face — so full 
of life and pleasure and bright cheerfulness — was to acquire hope; 
it was not possible to associate misery or despair with those clear- 
shining confident eyes. Her life (he returned to the fancy) was to 
be like the scenery in which the courtship and engagement passage 
of it had chanced to occur — pretty, placid, unclouded, not too ro- 
mantic. And so by the time they reached Merhadj he had grown 
to be, or had forced himself to appear, as cheerful as any of them. 
He knew he was nervous, fretful, and liable to gloomy anticipations; 
but he also had a certain power of fighting against these, and that 
he could do best when Yolande was actually beside him.- And was 
%he not there now — merry and laughing and delighted; eagerly in- 
terested in these nevr scenes, and trying to talk to everyone at once? 
He began to share in her excitement; he forgot about those vague 
horoscopes; it was the crowd of boats, and the children swimming 
in the Nile, and the women coming down with pitchers on their 
heads, and all the other busy and picturesque features along the 
shore that he was looking at, because she also was looking at them; 
and it was no visionary Yolande of the future, but the very sensible 
and practical and light hearted Yolande of that very moment, that 
he had to grip b}^ the arm, with an angry remonstrance about her 
attempting to walk down the gangboard by herself. Yolande 
laughed ; she never believed much in her father’s anger. 

They got ashore to find themselves in the midst of a h-iglitful tumult 
and confusion — at least, so it appeared to them after the silence and 
seclusion of the dahabeah, Douke^^s were being driven down to the 
river, raising clouds of dust as they came trotting along; the banks 
swarmed with mules and camels and water-carriers; the women 
were filling their pitchers, the boys their pigskin vessels; the children 
were diving and splashing and calling; and altogether the bustle and 
clamor seemed different enough from the ordinary repose of Eastern 
life, and were even a trifle bewildering. Cut in the midst of it all 


100 


yOLAKDE. 


appeared young Isniat Effendi, wlio came hurrying dov\'ii the bank 
to offer a hundred eager apologies for his not having been in time to 
receive them; and under his guidance they got away from the noise 
and squalor, and proceeded to cross a large open square, planted 
with a few acacia trees, to llie Governor's house just outside the 
town. The young Ismat was delighted to be the escort of thofee two 
English ladies. He, talked very fast, his eyes were eloquent; and 
his smiling face showed how proud and pleased he was. And would 
they go through the town with him after they had done his father 
the honor of a visit? 

“ The bazaars are not like Cairo,” saidhe. *‘ Ho; no; who could 
expect that? We area small town; but we are more Egyptian than 
Cairo; we are not half foreign, like Cairo.” 

“ I am sure it will be all the more interesting on that account,” 
said Mrs. Graham, graciously; and Yolande was pleased to express 
the same opinion; and young Ismat Effendi’s face seemed to say 
that a great honor had been conferred on him and on Merliadj. 

And indeed they were sufficiently interested in what they could 
already see of the place — this wide sandy square, with its acacias in 
tubs, its strings of donkeys and camels, its veiled women and dusky 
men; w'ith the high bare walls of a mosque, the tapering minaret, 
some lower walls of houses, and everywhere a profusion of palms, 
that bounded the further side, 

‘‘ Hillo, Mr. Ismat,” called out Colonel Graham, as two gangs of 
villainous-looking convicts, all chained to each other, came along, 
under guard of a couple of soldiers. ‘‘What have these fellows 
been doing?” 

‘‘They are prisoners,” said he, carelessly, ‘‘They have killed 
somebody, or stolen something. We make them carry water.” 

The hext new feature was a company of soldiers, in white tunics 
and trousers and red tarbooshes, who marched quickly along to the 
shrill music of bugles. They disappeared into the archway of a 
lai’ge square building. 

‘‘ That is my father’s house,” exclaimed young Ismat to ine ladies, 
‘‘ He looks to your visit with great pleasure. And the other gen- 
tlemen of the town, 'they are there also; and the chief engineer of 
the district. Your coming is a great honor to us.” 

‘‘ I wish I knew a little Arabic,” said Mrs. Graham. ‘‘lam sure 
wg have not thanked his Excellency half enough .for his kindness in 
lending us his dahabeah.” 

‘‘ Oh, quite enough, quite enough!” said the polite young Egyp- 
tian. ‘‘ I assure you it is nothing'^, Though it is a pity my father 
does not understand English — and not much French, either. He 
has been very busy all his life; and not traveling. The other gen- 
tlemen speak French, like most of the official Egyptians.” 

” And you,” said Mrs, Graham, regarding him with her pretty 
eyes, ‘‘ do you speak French as well as you speak English.” 

“My English!” he said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 
‘‘ It is very bad. I know it is very, very bad— I have never been in 
England— I have had no practice except a little in India. But. on 
the contrary, I have lived three years in Paris; French is much more 
natural to me than English.” 


TOLAISTDE. 101 

It is so with me also, Mr. Ismat,” said Yolande, a trifle shyly. 

“ With you!” he exclaimed. 

” I have lived nearly all my life in France. But your English, 
that you speak of, is not in the least bad. It is very good; is it not, 
Mrs. liraham?” 

Nothing further could be said on that point, however, for they 
were just escaping from the glare of the sun into a cool high arch- 
way; and from that they passed into a wide, open courtyard, where 
the guard of soldiers they had seen enter pi esented arms. Then they 
ascended some steps; and finally were ushered imo a large and lofty 
and barely furnished saloon, where the Governor and the notables 
of Merhadj received them with much serious courtesy. But this 
interview, as it turned out, was not quite so solemn as that on the 
deck of the dahabeah; for, after what Ismat Etfendi had said to the 
two ladies without, it was but natural that the conversation should 
be conducted in French; and so the coffee and cigarettes wdiich were 
brought in by two young lads were partaken of in anything but 
silence. And then, as little groups were thus formed, and as Ismat’s 
services as interpreter were not in such constant demand, he some- 
how came to devote himself to the two ladies, and as Yolande nat- 
urally spoke French with much more ease and fluency than Mrs. 
Graham, to her he cliiefly addressed himself. The Master of Lynn 
did not at all like this arrangement. He was silent, and impatient. 
He regarded this Frenchified Arab, wdio seemed to consider himself 
so fascinating, with a goodly measure of robust English contempt. 
And then he grew angry with his sister. She ought not to be, and 
she ought not to permit Y'olande to be. so familiar with this Egyp- 
tian fellow. Did she not know that Egyptian ladies studiously kept 
their faces concealed? And what must he be thinking of these two 
English ladies, who laughed and chatted in this free and easy 
fashion? 

Then, as regarded Y^olande, his gratitude for the great gift she 
had given him was still full in his mind, and he was willing to make 
every excuse for her, and to treat her with a manly forbearance and 
leniency; but at the same time he could not get rid of a certain con- 
sciousness that she did not seem to recognize as she ought that he 
had, in a way, a right of possession. She bore herself to him just 
as she bore herself to the others; if there was any one of the party 
whom she seemed especially to favor that morning as they came up 
the Nile, it was Colonel Graham, wdio did nothing but tease her. 
She did not seem to think there w^as any difference betw^een yester 
day and to-day; w^hereas yesterday she was free, and to-day she was 
a promised bride However, he threw most of the blame on his sis- 
ter. Polly w^as always trying the effect of her eyes on somebody; 
and this Egvptian was as good as another. And he wondered how 
Graham allowed it. 

But matters grew worse when this ceremonious interview w^as 
over. For, when they went to explore the narrow, twisting, mud- 
paved. and apparently endless bazaars of Merhadj, where there was 
scarcely room for the camels and donkeys to pass without bumping 
them against the w^alls or shop doors, of course they had to go two 
and two; and as young Ismat had to lead the way, and as he nat- 
urally continued to talk to the person with whom he had been talk- 


102 


YOLAKDE. 


ing within, it fell out that Yolande and he were the first pair; the 
others following as they pleased. Once or twice the Master struggled 
forward through the crowd and the dust and the donkeys, and tried 
to detach Yolande from her companion; but in each case some cir- 
cumstance happened to intervene, and he failed; and the-conse- 
quence was that, bringing up the rear with Mr. Winterbourne, who 
was not a talkative person, he had abundant leisure to nurse his 
wrath in silence. And he felt he had a right to be angr}'; though it 
was not perhaps altogether her fault. She did not seem to under- 
stand that there were relations existing between engaged people 
different from those existing between others. He had acquired a 
certain right; so, in fact, had she; for he put it to himself whether, 
supposing he had had the chance of walking through those miserable 
little streets of Merhadj with the prettiest young Englishwoman 
who ever lived, he would have deserted Yolande for her side. Ho, 
he would not. And he thought that he ought to remonstrate; and 
that he would remonstrate; but yet in a kindly way, so that no 
offense could be taken. It could be no offense, surely, to beg from 
her just a little bit more of her favor. 

Meanwhile, this was the conversation of those two in front, as 
they slowly made their way along the tortuous, catacomb-looking 
thoroughfare, with its dusky little shops, in the darkness of each of 
which sat the merchant, cross-legged, and gazing impassively out 
from under his large white turban : 

“ What is it, then, you wish?” he was saying to her; and he spoke 
in French that was much more idiomatic, if not any more fluent, 
than his English. ” Curiosities? Bric-a-brac?” 

* ” It is something very Eastern, very Egyptian, that I could send 

to the ladies at the Chateau where I was brought up,” she said, as 
she attentively scanned each gloomy recess. ” And also I would 
like to buy something for Mrs. Graham — a little present — I know 
not what. Also for my papa. Is there nothing very strange — very 
curious?” 

” But alas! mademoiselle,” said he, ” we have here no manufact- 
ures. Out business of the neighborhood is agriculture. All these 
articles in the bazaar are from Cairo; we have not even any of the 
Assiout pottery, which is pretty and curious, but perhaps not safe 
to caiTy on a long journey. The silver jewelry is all from Cairo; 

those silks from Cairo also; those cottons from England ” 

” At Cairo, then, one could purchase some things truly Egyptian?” 

” Certainly— certainly, mademoiselle, you will find the bazaars at 
Cairo full of interest. Ah, I wish with all my heart I could accom- 
pany you!” 

” Tnat would be to encroach entirely too much on your goodness, ” 
said she, with a pleasant smile. 

” Hot at all,” said he, earnestly. ” Ah, no; not at all. It is so 
charming to find one’s self for a time in new society; and if one can 
be of a little assistance, that is so much the better. Then there is 
also something I would speak to monsieur your father about, 
mademoiselle, before you return to the daliabeah. I have arranged 
one or two excursions for you, which may interest you, perhaps; and 
the necessary means are all prepared; and I think it might be of ad- 
vantage to begin these at once. There is no danger — no, no; there 


YOLAKDE. 


103 

is no cause for any alarm; but always of late the political atmos- 
phere has been somewhat disturbed; and if you were at Cairo, you 
would lind out better what was going to happen than we ourselves 
do here. Then, as you have said, you would wish to buy some 
things; and you will have need of plenty of time to go through the 
bazaars ” 

He seemed to speak with a little caution at this point. 

“ I have heard the gentlemen speak of it,” said she, with no great 
concern, for she was far from being a nervous person; ‘‘but they 
seemed to think there was no danger.” 

‘‘ Danger? No, no,” said he. ” For you there can be no danger. 
But if there is political disquiet and disturbance, it might not be 
quite agreeable for you; and that is all I wish to say to monsieur 
your father, that he would have the goodness to make the excursions 
as soon as possible, and so leave more time for judging the situatiop. 
It is a hint — it is a suggestion — that is all.” 

” I am sure that my papa and Colonel Graham will do whatever 
you think best,” said she. 

‘‘ You are very good, mademoiselle. I wish to serve them,” said 
he, with grave courtesy. 

Well, not onl3^ did this young man — whether intentionally or not, 
it was impossible to say — monopolize Yolande’s society during the 
remainder of their exploration of Merhadj, but furthermore, on 
their embarking in their boat to return, he accepted an invitation to 
dine with them that same evening; and the Master of Lynn was de- 
termined that, before young Ismat put foot on board the dahabeah, 
Yolande would be civilly but firmly requested to amend her ways. 
It was all very well for his sister, who was a born flirt, to go about 
making great friends with strangers; and it was all very well for 
Colonel Graham, who was too lazy to care about anything, to look 
on with good-humored indifference. But already this audacious 
youth had begun to pose Yolande as an exalted being. She knew 
nothing about garrisOn life in India. 

He had very considerable difficulty in obtaining a private conver- 
sation with Yolande, for life on board the dahabeah was distinctly 
public and social; but late on in the afternoon he succeeded. 

‘‘So, Yolande,” said he, with an artful carelessness, “this has 
been the first day of our engagement.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said she, looking up in a pleasant way. 

“ We haven’t seen much of each other,” he suggested. 

“ Ah, no; it has been such a busy day. How much nicer is the 
quiet here, is it not:’” 

“ But you seemed to find Ismat Effendi sufficiently amusing,” he 
said, somewhat coldly, 

“ Oh, yes,” she answered, quite frankly. “And so clever and 
intelligent. I hope we shall see him when he comes to England,” 

“ I thought,” said he, “ that in France young ladies were brought 
up to be rather reserved — that they were not supposed to become so 
friendly with chance acquaintances.” 

Perhaps there was something in the tone that caused her to look 
up, this time rather seriously. 

“ I should not call him a chance acquaintance,” she said, slowly. 

“ He is the friend of Colonel Graham, and of papa, and of yourself . ” 


YOLAIfDE. 


104 

And then she added, speaking still slowly, and still regarding him: 
“ Did you Ihink I was not enough reserved?” 

Well, there was a kind of obedience in her manner — a sort of 
biddableness in her eyes— that entirely took the wind out of the sails 
of his intended reproof. 

‘‘You see, Yolande,” said he, in a much more friendly way, 
“ perhaps it was mere bad luck; but after getting engaged only last 
night, you may imagine I wanted to see a little of you to-day; and 
you can’t suppose that I quite liked that Egyptian fellow monopo- 
lizing you the whole time. Of course, I am not jealous — and not 
jealous of that fellow! — for jealousy implies suspicion; and I know 
you too w^ell. But perhaps you dcm’t quite understand that people 
who are engaged have a little claim on each other; and expect to be 
treated with a little more intimacy and friendliness than as if they 
were outsiders,” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, I understand,” she said, with her eyes cast down, 

‘‘Of course, I am not complaining,” he continued, in the most 
amiable way. ” It would be a curious thing if 1 -were to begin to 
complain now, after what you said last night. But you can’t won 
der if I am anxious to have all your kindness to mj’^self; and that I 
should like you and me to have different relations between ourselves 
than those we have with other people. An engagement means giv- 
ing up something on both sides, I suppose. Do you think 1 should 
like to see you waltzing with any one else now? It isn’t in human 
nature that I should like it.” 

‘‘ Then I will not waltz with any one,” she said, still looking 
down. 

‘‘ And I don’t think 3'^ou will find me a tyrannous sort of person, 
Yolande,” said he, with a smile, ‘‘ even if jrou were inclined to make 
an engagement a much more serious matter than you seem to con- 
sider it. It is more likely you who will prove the tyrant; for you 
have your own way with everybody; and why not with me too? 
And I hope you understand why I spoke, don’t you? You don’t 
think it unkind?” 

‘‘ Oh, no, I quite understand,” she said, in the same low tone. 

Ismat Effendi came to dinner, as he had promised. She spoke 
scarcely a word to him the whole evening. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A CHAT IN THE DESERT. 

‘‘ Archie,” said his sister, on one occasion, in rather a significant 
tone, ‘‘ you will have some trouble with papa.” 

They were on their way to visit a convent some few miles inland; 
and the only thing that varied the iijonotony of the journey was the 
occasiou^il stumbling of the wretched animals they rode. He 
glanced round, to see that the others were far enough off; then he 
said, either carelessly or with an affectation of carelessness; 

” I dare say. Oh, yes, I have no doubt of it. But there would 
have been a row in any case; so it does not matter much. If I had 
brought home the daughter of an archangel, he would have growled 


YOLAKDE. 


105 

and grumbled. He gave you a pretty warm time of it, Polly, before 
he let you marry Graham.” 

And then he said, with more vehemence: 

” Hang it all, my father doesn’t understand the condition of things 
nowadays! The peerage isn't sacred any longer; you can’t expect 
people to keep on intermarrying and intermarrying, just to please 
Burke. We can show' a pretty good list, you know; and I wouldh’t 
add any name to it that would disgrace it; but that craze of my 
father’s is all nonsense. Why, the. only place nowadays where a 
lord i s w jaiahmetl^and glorified is tlVe Unit^ S^at_esv.tliat’s wdiere I 
shOTITTnave gone if Tnnit'wrmtefPto mAfry^'fbr 1 dare say 

they w'ould have found out that sooner or later 1 should succeed to 
a peerage. Of course, my father is treated with great respect wdien 
he goes to attend meetings at Inverness; and the keepers and gillies 
think he is the greatest man in the kingdom; but what w'ould he be 
in London? Why, there you find governing England a commoner, 
whose famil}' made their money in business; and under him — and 
glad enough to take office, too — noblemen whose names are as old 
as the history of England ” 

His sister interrupted hinL ” My dear Master,” said she, ” please 
remember that because a girl is pretty her father’s politics are not 
necessarily right. If you have imbibed those frightful sentiments 
from Mr. Winterbourne, for goodness’ sake, say nothing about 
them at the Towers. The matter will be difficult enough without 
that. You see, with anybody else, it might be practicable to shelve 
politics; but Mr. Winterbourne’s views and opinions are too widely 
known. And you will have quite enough difficulty in getting papa 
to receive Mr. Winterbourne with decent civility, without your talk- 
ing any wild Radicalism in that way.” 

” Radicalism?” said he. “ It is not Radicalism. It is common 
sense, which is just the reverse of Radicalism. However, what I 
have resolved on is this, Polly: his lordship shall remain in com- 
plete ignorance of the whole affair until Yolande goes to Allt-nam- 
ba. Then he will see her. That ought to do something to smooth 
the way? There is another thing, too. Winterbourne has taken 
Allt nam-ba; and my father ought to be well disposed to him on 
that account alone.” 

” Because a gentleman rents a shooting from you for one year— — ” 

“ But why one year?” he interposed quickly. “ Why shouldn’t 
Winterbourne take a lease of it? Pie can w'ell afford it. And with 
Yolande living up there, of course he w’ould like to come and see 
her sometimes; and Allt-nam ba is just the place for a man to bring 
a bachelor friend or two with him from London. He can well 
afford it. It is his only amusement. It w'ould be a good arrange- 
ment for me, too; for I could lend him a hand — and the moor wants 
hard shooting, else we shall be having the disease back again some 
fine day. Then we should ccmtinue to let the forest.” 

“ And where are you and Y^olaude going to live, then?” said his 
sister, regarding him with a curious look. “Are you going to in- 
stall her as mistress of the Towers?” 

“ Take her to Lynul” he said, with a scornful laugh. “ Yes, I 
should think so! Cage her up with that old cat, indeed!” 


YOLAKDE. 


106 

“ She is my aunt as well as yours, and 1 will not have her spoken 
of like that,” said Mrs. Graham, sharply. 

“She is niy aunt,” said this young man. “And she is yours; 
and she is an old cat at welk Never mind, Polly. You will see 
such things at Lynn as your small head never dreamed of. The 
place has just been starved for want of money. You must see that 
when you think of Inverstroy: look how well everything is done 
there. And then, when you consider how we have been working to 
paj'^ off scores run up by other people— that seems rather hard, 
doesn’t it?” 

“I don’t think so— I don’t think so at all!” his sister said, 
promptly. “ Our family may hav^e made mistakes in politics; but 
that was better than always truckling to the winning side. We 
have nothing to be ashamed of. And you ought to be very glad 
that so much of the land remains ours.” 

“ Well, you will see what can be made of it,” her brother said, 
confidently. “ I don’t regret now the long struggle to keep the 
place together; and once we get back Corrievreak, we’ll have 
the water-shed for the march agium.” 

His face brightened up at this prospect. 

“ That will" be something, Polly!” he said, gayly. “What a 
view there is from the tops all along that march! You’ve got the 
whole of Inverness-shire spread out around you like a map. I think 
it was £8000 my grandfather got for Corrievreak; but I suppose 
Sir John will want £15,000. I know he is ready to part with it. for 
it is of little use to him; it does not lie well with his forest. But if 
we had it back— and with the sheep taken off Allt-nam-ba ” 

“ Jim says you ought to make Corrievreak the sanctuary,” his 
sister remarked; and, indeed, she seemed quite as much interested 
as he in these joyful forecasts, 

“ Why, of course. There couldn’t be a better ” ( 

“ And I was saying that if you planted the Rushen slopes, and 
built a good large comfortable lodge there, you would get a far bet- 
ter rent for the forest. You know, it isn’t like the old days, Archie. 
The people who come from the south now come because it is the 
fashion; and they must have a fine house for their friends ” 

“ Yes, and hot luncheons sent up thehil! — with champagne glasses 
and table-napkins!” said he. “ No more biscuits and a flask to last 
you from morning till night. The next thing will be a portable 
dining-table, that can be taken up into one of the corries; and then 
they will have finger-glasses, I suppose, after lunch. No matter. 
For there is another thing, my sweet Mrs. Graham, that perhaps 
you have not considered; it may come to pass that, as time goes on, 
we may not have to let the forest at all. That would be much bet- 
ter than being indebted to your tenant for a day’s stalking in your 
own forest.” 

And then it seemed to strike him that all this planning and arrang- 
ing — on the basis of Yolande’s fortune — sounded just a little bit 
mercenary. 

“ To hear us talking like this,” said he, with a laugh, “ any one 
would imagine that I was marrying in order to improve the Lynn 
estate. Well, we haven’t quite come to that yet, 1 hope. If it 
were merely a question of money, 1 could have gone to America, 


YOLAKDE. 


10 ^ 

as I said. That would have been the market for the only kind of 
goods I’ve got to sell. No. I don’t think any one can bring that 
against me.” 

” 1, for one, would not think of accusing you of any such thing,” 
said his sister, warmly. ” 1 hope you would have more pride. Jim 
was poor enough when I married him.” 

” Now, if I icere mvLVvjmg for money,” said he — and he seemed 
eager to rebut this charge — ” I would have no scruples at all about 
asking Yolande to go and live at Lynn. Of course it T^ould be a 
very economical arrangement. But would I? I should think not. I 
wouldn’t have her shut up there for anjdhlng. But I hope she will 
like the house, as a visitor, and get on well with my father and my 
aunt. Don’t you think she will produce a good impression? What 
I hope for most of all is that Jack Melville will .take a fancy to her. 
That would settle it in a minute, j^ou know. Whatever Melville 
approves, that is right — at the Towers, or anywhere else. It’s his 
cheek, you know. He believes in himself; and everybody else be- 
lieves in him. It isn’t only at Gress that he is the dominie. ‘ Be 
is a scholar and a gentleman ’ — that is my beloved auntie’s pet 
phrase, as if his going to Oxford on the strength of the Ferguson 
scholarship made him an authority on the right construction of a 
salmon ladder.” 

” Is that the way you speak of your friends behind their backs?” 

” Well, he jumps upon me considerable,” said he, frankly; ” and 
I may as well take it out of him, when he is at Gress, and I am in 
Egypt. No matter. If he takes a fancy to Yolande, it will be all 
right. 'I'hat is how they do with cigars and wines in London-- 
‘ specially selected and approved by Messrs. So-and so. ’ It is a 
guarantee of genuine quality. And so it will be ‘ Yolande Winter- 
bourne, approved by Jack Melville, of Monaglen, and forwarded on 
to Lynn Towers.’ ” 

” If that is all, that can be easily managed,” said his sister, cheer- 
fully. ” When she is with us at Inverstroy w'e will take her over 
to call on Mrs, Bell.” 

” I know^ w^hat Mrs. Bell will call her— I know the very phrase; 
she will say. ‘She is a bonny doo, that.’ The old lady is rather 
proud of the Scotch she picked up in the south.” 

” She ought to be prouder of the plunder she picked up further 
south still. She ‘ drew up wi’ glaiket Englishers, at Carlisle-ha ’ to 
some purpose,” 

” Y'es; and Jack Melville will have every penny of it; and a good 
solid nest-egg it must be by this time. I am certain the old lady has 
an eye on Monaglen. What an odd thing it would be if Melville 
were to have Monaglen handed over to him just as we were g< ttiug 
back Corrievreak ! I think there are some curious changes in store 
in fhat'part of the world.” 

At this point Mrs. Graham pulled up her sorry steed, and waited 
until the rest of the cavalcade came along. 

” Y^olande, dear,” said she, in a tone of remonstrance, ” why 
don’t you come on in front, and get less of the dust?” 

Yolande did ak she was bid. 

‘‘ I have been so much interested,” said she, brightly. ” What a 
chance it is, to learn about Afghanistan and Russia— from one who 


YOLANBE. 


lOB 

knows, as C!olonel Graham does. Yon read and read in Parliament; 
but they all contradict each other. And Colonel Graham is quite 
of my papa’s opinion.” 

” Well, now, the stupidity of it!” said pretty Mrs. Graham, with 
an affected petulance. ” You people have been talking away about 
Afghanistan, and Archie and I have been talking away about the 
Highlands — in the African desert. What is the use of it? We 
ought to talk about what is around us.” 

I propose,” said the Master of Lynn, “ that Yolande gives us a 
lecture on the antiquities of Karnac.” 

” Do you know, then, that I could?” said she. ” But not this 
Karnac. No; the one in Brittany. 1 lived near it at Aiiray, for a 
long time, before I was taken to the chateau.” 

” My dear Yolande,” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, ” if you will tell 
us about yourself, and your early life, and ail that, we will pack off 
all the mummies and tombs and pillars that ever existed!” 

” But there is no story at all, except a sad one,” said the girl. 
” My uncle was a French gentleman — ah, so kind he was! — and one 
day in the winter he was shot in the woods when he and the other 
gentlemen were out. Oh, it must have been terrible when they 
brought him home — not quite dead; but they did not tell me; anci 
perhaps I was too young to experience all the misery. But it killed 
my aunt, who had taken me away from England when my mother 
died. She would not see any one; she shut herself up; then one 
morning she was found dead; and then they sent for my father, and 
he took me to the ladies at the chateau. That is all. Perhaps, if I 
had been older, I should have understood it more and been more 
grieved; but now, when I look back at Auray and our living there, 
I think mostly of the long drives with my aunt, and when 103" uncle 
was away at the chase, and often and often we drove along the 
peninsula of Quiberon, which not every one visits. And was it a 
challenge, then,” she added, in a brighter wmy, ” about a lecture on 
Karnac? Oh. I can give you one very easily. For I have read all 
the books about it; and 1 can give you all the theories about it, each 
of which is perfectly self-evident, and all of them quite contra- 
dictory. Shall I begin? It was a challenge.” 

” No, Yolande, I would far rather hear your own theory,” said 
he, gallantly. 

“Mine? I have not the vanity,” she said, lightly. ‘‘But this 
is what all the writers do not know— that, besides the long rows of 
stones in the open plains—oh, hundreds and thousands, so thick 
that all the farm-houses and the stone walls have been built of them 
—besides these, all through the woods, wherever you go. you come 
upon separate dolmens, and sometimes almost covered over. My 
aunt and I used to stop the carriage, and go wandering through the 
wmods in search; and always we thought these were the grhves of 
pious people who wished to be buried in a sacred place — near where 
the priests were sacrificing in the plain— and perhaps that their 
friends had brought their bodies from some distant land.” 

‘‘ Just as the Irish kings were carried to Iona to be buried,” said 
the Master. 

“But, Yolande, dear,” said Mrs. Graham, who was more iirtet- 
ested in the story of Yolande’s 3'outh than in Celtic monuments, 


YOLANDE. 


109 

“ how did you come to keep up your English, since you have lived 
all your life in France?” 

‘‘But my aunt spoke English, naturally,” said she. “Then at 
the chateau one of the ladies also spoke it— oh, I assure you, there 
was no European language she did not speak. Nor any country 
she did not know, for she had been traveling-companion to a noble 
lady. And always her belief was that you must learn Latin as the 
first key.” 

“ Then did you learn Latin. Yolande?” the Master of Lynn in- 
quired, with some vague impression that the question was jocular, 
for Yolande had not revealed any traces of erudition. 

“If j^ou will examine me in Virgil, I think I shall pass,” said 
she; “ but in Horace— not at all! It is distressing the way he twists 
the meaning about the little short lines, and hides it away; I never 
had patience enough for him. Ah, there is one who does not hide 
his meaning — there is one who can write the line that goes straight 
and sounding and majestic. You have not to puzzle over the mean 
ing when it is Victor Hugo who recounts to you the story of Euy 
Bias, of Cromwell, of Angelo, of Hernani. That is not the poetry 
that is made with needles!” 

Mrs. Graham was scarcely prepared for this declaration of faith. 

“My dear Yolande,” said she, cautiouslyt “Victor Hugo’s 
dramas are very fine; but I would not call them meat for babes. At 
the chateau, now ” 

“ Oh, they were strictly forbidden,” she said, frankly. “ Madame 
would have stormed if she had known. But we read them all the 
same. Why not? What is the harm? Every one knows that there 
is crime and wrong in the world; why should one shut one’s eyes? 
—that is folly. Is it not better to be indignant that there should be 
such crime and wrong? If there is any one who takes harm from 
such writing he must be a strange person.” 

“ At all events, Yolande,” said he, “ I hope you don’t think that 
all kings are scoundrels and all convicts angels of light? Victor Hugo 
is all very well, and he thunders along in fine style; but don’t you 
think he comes awfully near being ridiculous? He hasn’t much 
notion of a joke, has he? Don’t you think he is rather too portent- 
ously solemn?” 

Well, this inquiry into Yolande’s opinions and experiences — 
which was intensely interesting to him, and naturally so — was elic- 
iting some odd revelations; Tor it now appeared that she had arrived 
at the conclusion that the French, as a nation, were a serious and 
somber people. 

“Do you think so?” she said, with wide eyes. “Oh, I have 
found them so brave. The poor people in the fields, when you speak 
to them and they answer, it is always with a sigh; they look sad and 
tired; the care of work lies heavily on them. And at the chS.teau, 
also, everything was so serious and formal; and when we paid 
visits, there was none of the freedom, the amusement, the good 
humor of the English house. Sometimes, indeed, at Oatlands, at 
Weybridge, and once or twice at London, when my papa has taken 
me to visit, I have thought the mamma a little blunt in her frank- 
ness— in the expectation you would find yourself at home without 
any trouble on her part; but the daughter — oh, they were always 


110 


YOLAKDE. 


very kind, and then so full of interest, about boating, or tennis, or 
something like that— always so full of spirits, and cheerful — no, it 
was not in the least like a visit to a French family. In France, how 
many years is it before you become friends with a neighbor? In 
England, if you are among nice people, it is — to-morrow! You, 
dear Mrs, Graham, when you came to Oatlands, what did you know 
about me? Nothing.” 

” Bless the child, had I not my eyes?” Mrs. Graham exclaimed. 

‘ ‘ But before two or three days you were calling me by my Christian 
name.” 

” Indeed I did,” said Mrs. Graham, ” if it is a Christian, which I 
doubt. But Ihis I may suggest to you, my dear Yolande, that you 
don’t pay me a compliment, after the friendship you speak of, and 
the relationship we are all hoping for, in calling me by my married 
name. The name of Polly is Uot very romantic,” 

” Oh, dear Mrs. Graham, I couldn’t!” said Yolande, almost in 
affright. 

‘‘Of course not,” said the pretty young matron, with one of her 
most charming smiles. “Of course you couldn’t be guilty of such 
familiarily with one of my advanced age. But I suppose Jim is 
right. I am getting old. Only he doesn’t seem to consider that a 
reason for treating me with any increasing respect.” 

” I am sure I never thought of such a thing!” Yolande protested, 
almost in a voice of entreaty. ” How could you imagine it!”V 

‘‘ Very well. But if you consider that ‘ Polly ’ is not in accord- 
ance with my age, or my serious character as a -mother and a wife, 
there is a compromise in ‘Mary,’ which, indeed, was my proper 
name until I fell into the hands of men. I used always to be called 
Mary, until Archie and Jim began with their impertinence. And 
when we are in the Highlands together, you know, and yoti are 
staying with us at Inverstroy, or we are visiting you at Allt-nam-ba, 
or when we are all together at the Towers, whatever would the peo- 
ple think if they heard you call me ‘Mrs. Graham’? They would 
think we had quarreled.” 

‘‘ Then you are to be my sister Mary?” said Yolande, placidly; 
but the Master of Lynn flushed with pleasure when he heard that 
phrase. 

‘‘ And I will be your champion and protectress when you come 
into our savage wilds in a way you can’t dream of,” continued 
pretty Mrs. Graham. ‘‘ You don’t know how we stand by each 
other in the Highlands. We stand up for our own ; and you will be 
cne cf us in good time. And you haven’t the least idea what a des- 
perate person I am when my temper is up — though Jim would tell 
you he knows. Well, now, I suppose that is the convent over 
there, behind those palms; and we have been chattering the whole 
way about the Highlands, and Victor Hugo, and I don’t know what; 
and I haven’t the least idea what we are going to see or what we 
have to do.” 

But here the dragoman came up to assume the leadership of the 
party; and the Master of Lj'nn allowed himself to be eclipsed. He 
was not sorry. He was interested far less in the things around him 
than in the glimpses he had just got of Yolande’s earlier years; and 
he was trying to place these one after another, to make a connected 


YOLANDE. 


Ill 


picture of her life up till the time that this journey had brought 
him and her together. Could anything be more preoccupying than 
this study of the companion who was to be with him through all the 
long future time? And already she was related to him; she had 
chosen his sister to be hers. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A PHRASE. 

But these idle wanderings of theirs in Upper Egypt were destined 
to come to a sudden end. One evening they were coming down the 
river, and were about to pass Merhadj, when they saw young Ismat 
Effendi putting off in another boat, evidently with the intention of 
intercepting them. They immediately ordered their boat to be 
pulled in to the shore; and as Ismat said he wanted to say something 
to them, they stepped on board his father’s dahabeah, and went into 
the saloon, for the sake of coolness. 

Then the bright-faced young Egyptian, who seemed at once ex- 
cited and embarrassed, told them, in his fluent and oddly phrased 
English, that he was much alarmed; and that his alarm was not on 
account of any danger that might happen to them, but was the fear 
that they might think him discourteous and inhospitable. 

“ Who could think that!” said Pretty Mrs. Graham, in her sweet- 
est way. 

‘‘ Of course not. What’s the matter?” said her husband, more 
bluntly. 

Then young Ismat proceeded to explain that the latest news from 
the capital was not satisfactory; that many Europeans were leaving 
the country; that the reports in the journals were very contradictory; 
and that, in short, no one seemed to know what might not happen. 
And then he went on to implore them, if he suggested that they 
ought to return to Cairo, and satisfy themselves of their safety, by'- 
going to the English Consulate there, not to imagine that he wished 
them to shorten their visit, or that his father desired to dispossess 
them of the dahabeah. ‘‘How could that be,” he said, quite 
anxiously, ‘‘ when here was another dahabeah lying idle? No: the 
other dahabeah was Avholly at their service, for as long as they chose; 
and it would be a great honor to his father, and the highest happi- 
ness to himself, if they were to remain at Merhadj for the longest 
period they could command; but was he not bound, especially when 
there were two ladies with them, to let them know what he had 
heard, and give them counsel?” 

‘‘ My dear fellow, we understand perfectly,” said Colonel Graham, 
with his accustomed good humor. ‘‘And much obliged for the 
hint. Fact is, I think we ought to get back to Cairo in any case; 
for those woinen-folk want to have a turn at the bazaars, and by the 
time they have half ruined us we shall just be able to get along to 
Suez to catch the Ganges ” 

‘‘We must have plenty of time in Cairo,” said Mrs. Graham, em- 
phatically. 

‘‘ Oh, yes ” said he. “ Never mind the danger. Let them buy 


112 


YOLANDE. 


silver necklaces, and they won’t heed anything else. Very well, Mr. 
Ismat, come along with us now and have some dinner, and we can 
talk things over. We shall just be in time.” 

” May I?” said the young Egyptian, to Mrs. Graham. “lam not 
intruding?” 

“We shall be delighted if you will come with us,” said she, with 
one of her most gracious smiles. 

” It will not be pleasant for me when you go,” said he. “ There 
is not much society here.” 

” Nor will you find much society when you come to see us at In- 
verstroy, Mr. Ismat,” she answered. ” But we will make up for 
that by giving you a true Highland welcome: shall we not, Yolande, 
dear?” 

Yolande was not in the least emban-assed. She had quite grown 
accustomed to consider the Highlands as her future home. 

” I hope so,” she said, simply. ‘‘ We are not likely to forget the 
kindness Mr. Ismat has shown to us.” 

” Oh, mademoiselle!” said he. 

Now this resolve to go back to Cairo, and to get along from thence 
in time to catch the P. and O. steamer Ganges at Suez, was hailed 
with satisfaction by each member of the little party, though Tor very 
different reasons. Mr. Winterbourne was anxious to be at St. Ste- 
phens’ before the Budget; and he could look forward to giving un- 
interrupted attention to his Parliamentary duties, for Yolande was 
going on to Inverstroy with the Grahams. Yolande herself was glad 
to think that soon she would be installed as house-mistress at Allt- 
nam-ba; she had all her lists ready for the shops at Inverness; and 
she wanted time to have the servants tested before her father’s 
arrival. Mrs. Graham, of course, lived in the one blissful hope of 
seeing Baby again; while her husband was beginning to think that a 
little salmon-fishing would be an excellent thing. But the reason 
the Master of Lynn had for welcoming this decision was much more 
occult. 

” Polly,” he had said to his sister on the previous day, ‘‘ do you 
know, your friend Miss Yolande ” 

” My friend!” she said, staring at him. 

“ She seems more intimate with you than with any one else, at all 
events,” said he. ” Well, I was going to say that she takes things 
pretty coolly.” 

” I don’t understand you.” 

” I say she takes things very coolly,” he repeated. “ No one 
would imagine she was engaged at all.” 

” Are you complaining of her already?” 

” I am not complaining. I am stating a fact.” 

” What is wrong, then? Do you want her to go about proclaim- 
ing her engagement? Why, she can’t. You haven’t given her an 
engagement ring yet. Give her an engagement ring first, and then 
she can go about and show it.” 

” Oh, you know very well what I mean. You know that no one 
cares less about sentimentality and that sort of thing than I do; I 
don’t believe in it much; but still— she is just a trifle too business- 
like. She seems to say, ‘ Did I promise to marry? Oh, very well; 
all right, when the time comes. Call again to-morrow.’ Of course 


YOLAKBE. 


iia 

my idea would not be to have a languishing love-sick maiden always 
lolloping at your elbow ; but her absolute carelessness and indiffer- 
ence ” 

“ Oh, Archie, how can you say such a thing! She is most 
friendly with you ” 

“Friendly! Yes; so she is with Graham. Is it the way they 
bring up girls in France? — to have precisely the same amount of 
friendliness for everybody — lovers, husbands, or even other people’s 
husbands. It is convenient, certainly; but things might get 
mixed,” 

“ I wonder to hear you,” said Mrs Graham, indignantly. “ You 
don’t deserve your good fortune. The fact i is, Yolande Winter- 
bourne happens to have very good health and spirits, and she is nat- 
urally light-hearted; whereas you would like to have her somber 
and mysterious, I suppose; or perhaps it is the excitement of lover’s 
quarrels that you want. Is that it? Do you want to be quarreling 
and making up again all day long? Well, to tell you the truth, 
Archie, you haven’t hit on the right sort of girl. Now, 8hena Van 
would have suited you; she has a temper that would have given you 
amusement ’ ’ 

“ Leave Miss Stewart alone!” he said roughly. “I wish there 
were many women in the world like her: if there are, I haven’t met 
them.” 

“ Yolande is too good for you.” 

“ So she seems to think, at all events,” 

“ Why don’t you go and quarrel with her, then? What is the 
use of coming and talking over the matter with me?” 

“ With her? It wouldn’t interest her. She would rather talk 
about the price of coals, or the chances of the Irish getting Home 
Rule — anything but what ought to be the most important event in 
her life.” 

“ Archie,” said his sister, who did not attach too much seriousness 
to these temporary moods of disappointment, “if papa finds out 
that Mr. Winterbourne is half inclined, and more than half in- 
clined, to favor Home Rule, he will go out of his senses.” 

“ Let him go out of his senses,” said her brother, with deliberate 
indifference. “ I suppose the worst that could happen would be the 
breaking off of the match.” 

But this possibility, involving the destruction of all her beautiful 
plans and dreams of the future, instantly awoke her alarm; and her 
protest was emphatic. 

Archie,” said she, regarding him sternly, “I beg you to re- 
member that you are expected to act as a gentleman.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

“ I will tell you, plain enough. You have asked this girl to be your 
wife ; she has accepted you ; your engagement has been made known ; 
and I say this that if you were to throw her over — I don’t care for 
what reason — you would stamp yourself as acoward. Is that plain? 
A girl may be allowed to change her mind — at least, she sometimes 
does; and there is not much said against her; but the man who en- 
gages himself to a girl, and allows the engagement to be known and 
talked about, and then throws her over, I say is a coward, neither 
more nor less. And I don’t believe it of you. I don’t believe you 


114 


YOLAKDE. 


would allow papa or any one else to interfere, now the thing is 
settled. The Leslies are not made of stuff like that.” 

“ That is all very well ” — he was going to urge; but the impetuous 
little woman would have her say. 

“ What is more, I honor her highly for her reserve. There is 
nothing more disgusting than to see young people dawdling and 
fondling in the presence of others.^. You don’t want to be Jock and 
Jenny going to the fair, do you?” 

‘‘ Look here, Demosthenes,” he said, calmly. ” You are as good 
as any one I know at drawing a herring across the scent; but you are 
perfectly aware all the time of what I mean.” 

This somewhat disconcerted her. 

” Well, I am — in a way,” she said; and her tone was now rather 
one of appeal. ” But don’t you see what life on board this boat is? 
It is all in the open. You cannot expect any girl to be confidential 
when you have scarcely ever a chance of talking to her by herself. 
You inust make allowances, Archie. Ido know what you mean; 
but — but I don’t think you are right; and I, for one, am very 
glad to see her so light-hearted. You may depend on it she hasn’t 
sacrificed any one else in order to accept you. Her cheerfulness 
promises very well for the future — that is my idea of it; it shows 
that she is not thinking of somebody else, as girls sometimes do, 
even after they are engaged. Of course it isn’t the girl’s place to 
declare her sentiments; and it does happen sometimes that there is 
some one they would rather have had speak; and, of course, there is 
an occasional backward glance, even after marriage. In Yolande’s 
case, I don’t think there is. One cannot be certain; but I don’t 
think there is. And why should you be disappointed because she 
does not too openly show her preference? Of course she can’t — in 
this sort of life. But you will have the whole field to yourself. 
You have no rival; and she has a quickly grateful nature. You 
will have her all to yourself in the Highlands. Here she is waiting 
on her father half the time, and the other half Jim is making fun 
with her. At Inverstroy it will be quite different.” 

” Well, perhaps. I hope so,” said he. 

'* Of course it will! Y^ou will have her all to yourself. Jim will 
be away at his fences and his pheasant-coops; and I shall have 
plenty to do in the house. And if you want her to quarrel with 
you, I dare say she will oblige you. Most girls can manage that. 
But the first thing to be done, Archie— in sober seriousness — is to buy 
a very nice engagement ring for her at Cairo; and that will be 
always reminding her. And I do hope it will be a nice one, a very 
handsome one indeed. Y^ou ought not to consider expense on such 
an occasion. If you haven’t quite enough money with you, Jim 
will lend you some. It is certainly odd that she should have no 
family jewelry; but it is all the greater opportunity for you to give 
her something very pretty; and you ought to show the VYinter- 
bournes, for your own sake, and for the sake of our family, that 
you can do the thing handsomely.” 

He laughed. 

” To hear you, Polly, one would think you were an old woman 
—a thorough old schemer. And yet how long is it since your chief 


TOLAKDE. 


115 

delight in life used to be to go tomabogging down the face of Bend- 
yerg?” 

“ I have learnt a little crwmon sense since then,” said pretty Mrs. 
Graham, with a demure smile. 

Well, he did buy a very handsome ring for her when they got to 
Cairo; and Yolande was greatly pleased with it, and said something 
very kind and pretty to him. Moreover; there was a good deal of 
buying going on. The gentlemen at the Consulate had expressed 
their belief that they were in no immediate danger of having their 
throats cut; and they set to work to ransack the bazaars with a right 
good will. Nor was there any concealment of the intent of most of 
those purchases. Of course they bought trinkets and bric-d brae, 
mostly for presentation to their friends; and Mr. Winterbourne in- 
sisted on Mrs. Graham accepting from him a costly piece of Syrian 
embroidery on which she had set longing eyes during their previous 
visit. But the great mass of their purchases— at least of Mr. Winter- 
bourne’s purchases— was clearly and obviously meant for the deco- 
ration of Yolande’s future home, Under Mrs. Graham’s guidance, 
he bought all sorts of silk stuffs, embroideries and draperies. He had 
a huge case packed with hand graven brass work — squat, quaint 
candlesticks, large shields; cups, trays, and what not; and once, 
when, in an old curiosity shop, and Y^olande happening to be stand- 
ing outside, Mrs. Graham ventured to remonstrate with him about 
the cost of some^Rhodian dishes he had just said he would take he 
answered her thus ; — 

” My dear Mrs. Graham, when in Egypt we must do as the Egyp- 
tians do. Don’t you remember the bride who came down to the 
river, bringing with her bales of carpets and her drove of donkeys? 
Yolande must have her plenishing — that is a good Scotch word, is 
it not?” 

” But I should think she must have about a dozen of those 
sheiks’ head dresses already,” said pretty Mrs. Graham. ” And we 
don’t really have so many fancy-dress balls in Inverness. Besides, 
she could not go as a sheik.” 

” Fancy-dress balls? Oh no; nothing of the kind. They will do 
for a dozen things in a room— to be pitched on to sofas— or the 
backs of chairs — merely patches of fine color.” 

” And that,” said she, with a smile looking at an antique Persian 
dagger, with an exquisitely carved handle and elaborately inlaid 
sheath. ” Of what use will that be in the Highlands?” 

” My dear madam,” said he, with a perfectly grave face. “I 
have not listened to your husband and your brother for nothing. Is 
it-not necessary to have something with which to gralloch a wounded 
stag?” 

” To gralloch a wounded stag with a beautiful thing like that!” 
she exclaimed, in horror. 

” And if it is too good for that, cannot Y'olande use it as a paper- 
knife? Y"ou don’t mean to say that when you and your husband 
came home from India, ypu brought back no curiosities with you?” 

” Of course we did; and long before that Jim had a whole lot of 
things from the Summer Palace at Pekin; but then, we are old 
people. These things are too expensive for young people just be- 
ginning.” 

/ 

\ 


116 


fOLANDE. 


r, 


“ The bride must have her plenishing,” said he, briefly; and then 
he began to bargain for a number of exceedingly beautiful Damas- 
cus tiles, which, he thought, would just about be sutflcient for the 
construction of a fireplace. 

Nor were these people the least bit ashamed when, some days after 
this, they managed to smuggle their valuable cases on board the 
homeward-bound steamer, without paying the Customs’ dues. Mr. 
Winterbourne declared that a nation which was so financially mad 
as to levy an eight per cent ad valorem duty on exports — or rather 
that a nation which was so mad as to tax exports at all — ought not 
to be encouraged in its lunacy; and he further consoled his con- 
science by reflecting that, so far from his party having spoiled the 
Egyptians it was doubtless all the other w^ay; and that probably 
some £60 or £70 of English money had been left in the Cairene 
bazaars, which had no right to be there. However, he was content. 
The things were such things as he had wanted; he had got them as 
cheaply as seemed possible; he would have paid more for them had 
it been necessary. For, he said to himself, even the rooms of a 
Highland shooting-box might be made more picturesque and in- 
teresting by these art relics of other and former civilizations He 
did not know what kind of home the Master of Lynn was lik^y to 
provide for his bride; but good colors and good materials were ap- 
propriate anywhere; and even if Yolande and her husband were to 
succeed to the possession of Lynn Towers, and even if the rooms 
there (as he had heard was the case at Balmoral) were decorated ex- 
clusively in Highland fashion, surely they could set aside some 
chamber for the reception of those draperies, and potteries, and 
tiles, and what not, that would remind Yolande of her visit to the 
East, The bride must have her plenishing, he said to himself again 
and again. But the}’^ bought no jewelry, of a good kind, in Cairo; 
Mr. Winterbourne said he would rather trust Bond Street wares. 

And at last the big steamer slowly sailed away from the land; and 
they had begun their homeward voyage. Mrs. Graham and her hus- 
band were on the hurricane-deck; she was leaning with both arms 
on the rail. 

“Good-by, Egypt,” said she, as she regarded the pale yellow 
country under the pale turquois sky. “ You have been very kind 
to me. You have made me a most charming .present to take back 
with me to the Highlands.” 

“ What, then?” said her husband. 

“ A sister.” 

“ She isn’t your sister yet,” he said, gruffly. 

“ She is; and she will be,” she answered, confidently. “ Do yon 
,now. Jim, I had my hopes and wishes all the w.ay out; but I could 
leverbesure; for Archie is not easily caught. And I don’t think 
she distinguished him much from the others on the voyage here; ex- 
cept in so far as he was one of our party. ' Sometimes* I gave it up, 
to tell you the truth. And then again it seemed so desirable in 
every way; for I had got to like the girl myself; and I could see 
that Archie would be safe with her; and I could see very well, too, 
that Mr. Winterbourne had his eyes open; and that he seemed very 
well disposed toward it.” 


YOLAITDE. 117 

“You must have been watching everybody like a cat,” her hus- 
band said, in not too complimentary fashion. 

^ “ Can you wonder that I was interested?” she said, in protest. 
“ Just fancy what it would be for us if he had brought some horrid 
insufferable creature to Lynn ! I wouldn’t have gone near the place; 
and we have little enough society as it is. But that life on the Nile 
did it; and I knew it would, the moment the dahabeah had started 
from Aysoot— being all by ourselves like that, and he paying her 
little attentions all day long. He couldn’t help doing that, could 
he 5* — it wouldn’t have been civil. And I foresaw what the end 
would be; and I am very glad of it; and quite grateful to Egypt 
and the Nile, despite all the flies and the mosquitoes. 

“ I dare say it will turn out all right,” her husband said, in- 
differently. 

“Well, you don’t seem very delighted,” she exclaimed. “ Is that 
all you have to say? Don’t you think it is a very good thing?” 

“ Well, yes, I do think it is a good thing. I have no doubt they 
will get on very well together. And in other respects the match 
will be an advantageous one. 

“ That is rather cold approval,” said she, somewhat disappointed. 

“ Oh, no, it isn’t,” said he, and he turned from looking at the re- 
treating land and regarded her. “ I say I don’t think he could have 
chosen better; and I believe they will be happy enough; and they 
ought to be comfortable and well off. Isn’t that sufficient? He 
seems fond of her; I think they will lead a very comfortable life. 
What more?” 

“ But there is something behind what you say, Jim; I know there 
is,” she said. 

“ And if there is, it is nothing very serious,” said he; and then 
he added, with a curious sort of smile: “ I tell you I think it will 
come out all right; I am sure it will. But you can’t deny this, 
Polly — well, I don’t know how to put it. I may be mistaken. I 
haven’t as sharp eyes as yours. But I have a fancy that this mar- 
riage, though I have no doubt it will be a happy enough one, will be, 
on her side at least ” 

“ What, then?” said bis wife, peremptorily. 

“ I don’t quite know whether the French have a phrase for it,” 
said he, evasively, but still with the same odd smile on his face. 
“ Probably they have; they ought to have, at least. At any rate, I 
have a kind of fancy — now it’s nothing very terrible— I say I have 
a dim kind of fancy, that on her side the marriage will be some- 
thing that might be called a manage de complaisance. Oh, you 
needn’t go away in a temper. There have been worse marriages 
than a manage de com 2 )laisance.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AMONG THE CLOUDS. 

Far up in the wild and lonely hills that form the backbone, as it 
were, of eastern Inverness shire, and the desert solitudes where the 
Findhorn and the Foyers first begin to draw their waters from a 
thousand mystic-named or nameless rills, stands the lodge of Allt- 


118 


YOLANDE. 


nani'-ba. The plaio little double-gabled building, with its depend- 
encies of kennels, stables, coach house, and keepers’ bothy, occupies 
a promontory formed by the couduence of two brawling streams, 
and faces a long, wide, beautiful valley, which terminates in the 
winding waters of a loch. It is the only sign of habitation in the 
strangely silent district; and it is the last. The rough hill-road lead- 
ing to it terminates there. From that small plateau divergent cor- 
ries — softly wooded most of them are, with waterfalls half hidden by 
birch- and rowan-trees — stretch up still further into a sterile wilder- 
ness of moor and lochan and bare mountain-top, the haunt of the 
ptarmigan, the red deer, and the eagle; and the onl}’’ sound to be 
heard in these voiceless altitudes is the monotonous murmur of the 
various burns — the White Winding Water, the Dun Water, the 
Stream of the Red Lochan, the Stream of the Fairies, the Stream of 
the Corrie of the Horses, as they are called in the Gaelic, 

At the door of this solitary little lodge, on a morning toward the 
end of July, Yolande Winterbourne was standing, engaged in but- 
toning on her driving-gloves, but occasionally glancing out at the 
bewildering, changeful, flashing, and gleaming day around her. 
For, indeed, since she had come to live at Allt-nam-ba she bad ac- 
quired the conviction that the place seemed very close up to the sky; 
and that this broad valley, walled in by those great and silent hills, 
formed a sort of caldron, in which the elements were in the habit of 
mixing up w^eather for transference to the wide world beyond. Al, 
this very moment, for example, a continual phantasmagoria of cloud- 
effects was passing before her eyes. Far mountain-lops grew 
blacker and blacker in shadow; then the gray mist of the rain stole 
slowly across and hid them from view; then they reappeared again, 
and a sudden shaft of sunlight would strike on the yellow-green 
slopes, and on the bowlders of wet and glittering granite. But she 
had this one consolation — that the prospect in front of the lodge was 
much more reassuring than that behind. Behind — over the mount- 
ainous ranges of the moor — the clouds were banking up in a heavy and 
thunderous purple; and in the ominous silence the streams coming 
down from the corries sounded loud ; whereas, away before her, 
the valley that led down to the haunts of men were for the most 
part flooded with brilliant sunlight, and the wind-swept loch was of 
the darkest and keenest blue. Altogether there, was more life and 
motion here — more color and brilliancy and change— -than in the 
pale and placid Egyptian landscape she had grown accustomed to ; 
but there w'as also— she might have been pardoned for thinking — 
for one who was about to drive fourteen miles in a dog-cart, a little 
more anxiety; and she had already resolved to take her water proof 
with her. 

However, she was not much dismayed. She had lived in this 
weather brewing caldron of a place for some little time; and had 
grown familiar with its thfealening glooms, which generally came 
to nothing; and with its sudden and dazzling glories, which laughed 
out a welcome to the lonely traveler in the most surprising fashion. 
When the dog-cart— a four-wheeled vehicle--was brought round, 
she stepped into it lightly, and took the reins as if to the manner 
born, though she had never handled a whip until Mrs, Graham had 
put her in training at Inverstroy. Then there was a strict charge tCh 


TOLAITDE. 


119 


Jane to see that brisk fires were kept burning in all the rooms; for, 
although it was still July, the air of these alpine solitudes was some- 
times somewhat keen. And then — the youthful and fair -haired 
Sandy having got up behind — she released the break; and presently 
they were making their way, slowly and cautiously at first, down 
the stony path, and over the loud-sounding wooden bridge that here 
spans the roaring red brown waters of the Allt-cam-ban. 

But when once they were over the bridge and into the road leading 
down the wide strath, they quickly inenUed their pace. There was 
an unusual eagerness and brightness in her look. Sandy the groom 
knew that the stout and serviceable cob in the shafts was a sure- 
footed beast; but the road was of the roughest; and he could not 
understand how the young English lady, who was generally 
very cautious, should drive so fast. Was it to get away from the 
black thunder-masses of cloud that lay over the mountains behind 
them? Here, at least, there seemed no danger of any storm. The 
sunlight was brilliant on the wide green pastures and on the flashing 
waters of the stream; and the steep and sterile hillsides were shining 
now; and the loch far ahead of them had its wind-rippled surface- 
of a blue like the heart of a sapphire. Yolande’s face soon showed 
the influence of the warm sunlight and of the fresh keen air; and 
her eyes were glad, though they seemed busy with other things. 
Indeed, there was scarcely any sign of life around to attract her 
attention. The sheep on the vast slopes, where there was but a scanty 
pasturage among the blocks of granite, were as small gray specks; 
an eagle, slowly circling on motionless wing over the furthest 
mountain-range, looked no bigger than a hawk; some young fal- 
cons, whose cry sounded just overhead among the crags were invisi- 
ble. But perhaps she did not heed these things much? She seemed 
preoccupied; and yet happy and light-hearted. 

When, in due course of time, they reached the end of the valley 
and got on to the road that wound along the wooded shores of the 
loch, there was much easier going; and Sandy dismissed his fears, 
[t was a pretty loch, this stretch of wind-stirred blue water, for the 
hills surrounding it were somewhat less sterile than those of Allt- 
nam-ba; here and there the banks were fringed with hazel; and at 
the lower end of it, where the river flowing from it wound through 
a picturesque ravine, were the dark-green plantations surrounding 
Lynn Towers. They had driven for about a mile and a liaif or so 
by the shores of the lake, when Yolande fancied she heard some 
cfanking noise proceeding from the other side; and thereupon she 
instantly asked Sandy what that could be, for any sound save the 
bleating of sheep or the croak of a raven was an unusual thing 
here. The young Highland lad strained his eyes in the direction 
of the distant hillside; and at last he said, 

“ Oh, yes, I see them now. They will be the men taking up more 
fencing to the forest. Duncan was speaking about that, madam.” 

(For he was a polite youth, as far as his English went.) 

” 1 canT see anything, Sandy,” said the young lady. 

” If Miss Winterbourne would be looking about half way up the 
hill — they are by the side of the gray corrie now.” 

Then he added, after a second: 

*‘ 1 am thinking that will be the Master at the top.” 


120 


YOLAKDE. 


“ Do you mean the Master of Lynn?” she said, quickly. 

“Yes, madam.” 

“ Well, your eyes are sharper than mine, Sandy. 1 can see that 
black speck on the sky-line; but that is all.” 

“He is waving a handkerchief now,’' said Sandy, with much 
coolness. 

“ Oh, that is impossible. How could he make us out at this dis- 
tance?” 

“ The Master will know there is no other carriage than this one 
coming from Allt-nam-ba.” 

“Very well, then,” said she, taking out her handkerchief and 
giving it a little shake or two in the sunlight. “ I will take the 
chance; but you koow, Sandy, it is more likely to be one of the 
keepers waving his hand to you.” 

“ Oh, no, madam; it is the Master himself — I am sure of it. He 
was up at the bothy yesterday evening, to see Duncan about the 
gillies; and he was saying something about the new fence above the 
loch.” 

Was Mr. Leslie at Allt-nam-ba last night?” said she, in surprise. 

“ Oh, yes, madam.” 

“ And he left no message for me?” 

“ 1 think there was not any message. But he was asking when 
Miss Winterbourne’s father was coming; and I told him that I was 
to drive Miss V/interbourne into Foyers this morning.” 

“ Oh, that is all right,” she said, with much content. 

By tliis time they had reached the lower end of the lake; and 
when they had crossed the wooden bridge over the river and as- 
cended a bit of the hill, they found themselves opposite Lynn Towers 
— a large, modern building, which, with its numerous conserva- 
tories, stood on a level piece of ground on the other side of the ravine. 
Then on again; and in time they beheld stretching out before them 
a wide and variegated plain, looking rich and fertile and cultivated 
after the mountainous solitudes they had left behind; while all 
around them were hanginsj; woods, with open slopes of pasture, and 
rills running down to the river in the valley beneath. As they drove 
on and down into that smiling and shining country, the day grew 
more and more brilliant. The breaks of blue in the sky grew 
broader, the silver-gleaming clouds went slowl^y by to the east; ami 
the air, which was much warmer down here, was perfumed with the 
delicate resinous odor of the sweet-gale. Wild flowers grew more 
luxuriantly. Here and there a farm-house appeared— with fields of 
grain encroaching on the moorland. And at last, after some miles 
of this gradual descent, Yolande arrived at a little sprinkling of 
houses sufficient iu number — though much scattered among the 
fields —to be called a village; and drew up at the small wooden gate 
of a modest little mansion, very prettily situated in the midst of a 
garden of roses, columbine, nasturtiums, and other cottage favorites. 
No sooner had the carriage stopped than instantly the door was 
opened by a smiling and comely dame, with silver gray hair, and 
pleasant, shrewd gray eyes, who came down the garden path. She 
was neatly and plainly dressed, in a housekeeper-looking kind of 
costume; but her face was refined and intelligent; and there was a 


YOLANDB. 121 

sort of motherliness, as well as very obvious kindness, in the look 
with which she regarded the young English lady. 

“ Do you know that 1 meant to scold you, Mrs. Bell, for robbing 
your garden again?” said Yolande. ” But this time— no— 1 am not 
going to scold you; I can only thank you; for my papa is coming 
to-day; and oh, you should see how pretty the rooms are with the 
flowers you sent me. But not again, now — not any more destroying 
the garden ” 

” Dear me, and is your papa coming the day?” said the elderly 
woman, in a slow, persuasive, gentle, south-country sort of fashion.” 

‘‘I am going now to meeet him at the steamer,” said Yolande, 
quickly. “That is why ” 

• ” Well, now,” said Mrs. Bell, ” that is just a most extraordinary 
piece of good luck; for I happen to have a pair of the very finest 
and plumpest young ducklings that ever I set eyes on ” 

‘‘No, no; no, no, no!” Yolande cried, laughing; ‘‘ I cannot have 
any more excuses for these kindnesses and kindnesses. Every day 
since I came here — every day a fresh excuse — and always the boy 
coming with Mrs. Bell’s compliments ” 

” Dinna ye think I know perfectly well,” said the other, in a tone 
of half-inrlignant remonstrance, ‘‘ what it is for a young leddy to be 
trying housekeeping in a place like yon? So there’s not to be an- 
other word about it; ye’ll just stop for a minute as ye’re going back, 
and take the ducklings wi’ ye; ay, and I’ve got a nice bunch or 
two o’ fresh-cut lettuce for ye, and a few carrots and turnips — I de- 
clare it’s a shame to see the things wasting in the gairden, for we 
canna use the half of them ” 

‘‘ Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to give me the garden and the 
house and everything all at once?” said Yolande. ‘‘ Well, now, 1 
wish to see Mr. Melville.” 

” Ye canna do that,” was the prompt reply. 

“Why?” said the girl, with something of a stare; for she had 
not been in the habit of having her requests refused up in this part 
of the world. 

‘‘ He is at his work, ’’ said the elderly dame, glancing at a small 
building that stood at right angles with the house. ‘‘ Do ye think 1 
would disturb him when he is at his work? Do you think I want 
him to send me about my business?” 

” There is a tyrant!” exclaimed Y’'olande. ” Nevermind, then; I 
wanted to thank him for sending me the trout. Now 1 will not. 
Well, good-by, Mrs. Bell; I will take the vegetables, and be very 
grateful to you; but not the ducklings ” 

‘‘ Ye’ll just take the ducklings, as I say, like a sensible young 
leddy,” said Mrs. Bell, with emphasis; ‘‘ and tliere is not to be an- 
other word about it.” 

So on she drove again, on this bright and beautifulJuly day. through 
a picturesque and rocky and rugged country, until in time she 
reached the end of her journey— the charming little hotel that is 
perched high amid the woods overlooking Loch Ness, within sound 
of the thundering Foyers Water. And as she had hurried mainly 
to give the cob a long midda^’^ rest— the steamer not being due till 
the afternoon — she now found herself with some hours’ leisure at her 
disposal, which she spent in idly wandering through the umbrageous 


132 


YOLANDE. 


woods, startling many a half tame pheasant, but never coming on 
the real object of her quest, a roe-deer. And then, at last, she heard 
the throbbing of paddle-wheels in the intense silence; and just 
about as quick as any roe-deer she made her way down through the 
bracken and the bushes, and went right out to the end of the little 
pier. 

She made him out at once, even at that distance; for though he 
was not a tall man, his sharp-k*atured, sim-reddened face and silver- 
white hair made him easily recognizable. And of course she was 
greatly delighted when he came ashore, and excited too; and she her- 
self would have carried gun-cases, fishing- baskets, and what not, to 
the dog-cart, had not the boots from the hotel interfered. And she 
had a hundred eager questions and assurances, but would pay no 
heed to his remonstrance about the risks of her driving. 

“Why, papa, 1 drove every day at Inverslroy!” she exclaimed, 
as they briskly set out for Allt nam-ba. 

“ I suppose the Grahams were very kind to you?” he said. 

“ Oh, yes. yes, yes!” 

“ And the Master, how is he?” 

“ Oh, very well, 1 believe. Of course 1 have not seen him since 
Mrs. Graham left. But he has made all the arrangements for you — 
ponies, panniers, everything quite arranged. And he leff the rifle 
at the bothy; and 1 have the cartridges all right from Inverness — 
oh, yes, you will find everything prepared ; and there is no want of 
provision, for Mr. Melville sends me plenty of trout, and Duncan 
goes up the hill now and again for a hare, and they are sending me 
a sheep from the farm ” 

“ A sheep!” 

“ Duncan said it was the best way, to have a sheep killed. And 
we have new laid eggs, and fresh milk every day. And every one 
is so kind and attentive, papa, that whatever turus out wrong that 
will be my fault in not arranging properly ” 

“ Oh, that will be all right,” said he, good-humoredly. “ 1 want 
to hear about yourself, Yolande. What do you think of Lord Lynn 
and his sister, now that you have seen something more of them?” 

This question checked her volubility, and for a second a very odd 
expression came over her face. 

“ They are very serious people, papa,” said she, with some cau- 
tion. “ And — and very pious, I think.” 

“ But I suppose you are as pious as they can be?” her father said. 
“ That is no objection.” 

She was silent. 

“ And those other people— the old woman who pretends to be a 
housekeeper and is a sort of Good Fairy in disguise— and the penni- 
less young laird, who has no land ” 

Instantly her face brightened up. 

“ Oh, he is the most extraordinary person, papa — a magician! 1 
cannot describe it; you must see for yourself; but really it is won- 
derful. He has a stream to work for him — yes — for Mrs. *G rahain and 
I went and visited it — climbing away up the hills — and there w^asthe 
water-wheel at work in the water, and a hut close by, and there 
were copper wires to take the electricity away down to the house, 
where he has a store of it. It is a genie for him; he makes it light 


YOLANDE. 


123 

the lamps in the house, in the schoolroom, and it makes electrotype 
copies for him; it works a lathe for turning wood— oh, ] can’t tell 
you all about it. And he has been so kind to me; but mostly in 
secret, so that I could not catch him to thank him. How could I 
know? I complain to Mrs. Bell that it is a trouble to send to In- 
verness for some one to set the clock going; the next morning — it is 
all right! It goes, nothing wrong at all! "Then the broken window 
in the drawingroom; Mrs. Graham and I drive away to Fort 
.Augustus; when 1 come back in the evening there is a new pane 
put in. Then the hher in the water-tank up the hill ” 

“ But what on earth is this wonderful Jack-of-all -trades doing here? 
Why, you yourself wrote to me, Yolande, that he had taken the Snell 
Exhibition and the Ferguson Scholarship, and blazed like a comet 
through Balliol; and now 1 find him tinkering at window- 
panes ” 

She laughed. 

“ I think he works very hard ; he says he is very lazy. He is very 
fond of fishing; he is not well off; and here he is permitted to fish in 
the lakes far away among the hills that few people will take the 
trouble to go to. Then naturally he has much interest in this neigh- 
borhood, where once his people were the great family; and those 
living here have a great respect for him; and he has built a school, 
and leaches in it — it is a free school, no charge at all,” Yolande 
added, hastily. ” That is Mrs. Bell’s kindness, the building of the 
school. Then he makes experiments and discoveries: is it not 
enough of an occupation when every one is talking about the electric 
light? Also he is a great botanist; and when it is not schooltime, he 
is away up in the hills, after rare plants, or to fish. Oh, it is terri- 
ble the loneliness of the small lakes up in the hills, Mr. Leslie has 
told me; no road, no track, no life anywhere. And the long hours 
of climbing; oh, I am sure I have been sorry sometimes — many 
times — when da3" after day 1 received a present of trout and a mes- 
sage, to think of the long climbing and the labor ” 

” But why doesn’t he fish in the loch at Allt-nam-ba?” her father 
exclaimed. ” That can’t be so difficult to get at.” 

He had permission last year,” said she. 

” Why not this?” 

‘‘He thought it would be more correct to wait for you to give 
permission.” 

‘‘ Well, now, Yolande,” said he, peevishly, ‘‘how could you be 
so stupid! Here is a fellow who shows you all sorts of kindnesses, 
and you haven’t enough common sense to offer him a day’s fishing 
in the loch!” 

‘‘ It was not my affair,” she said, cheerfully. ‘‘ That was for you 
to arrange.” 

‘‘Waiting for permission to fish in a loch like that!” her father 
said, more good-naturedly-— for indeed his discontent with Yolande 
rarely lasted for more than about the fifteenth part of a second. 

‘‘ Leslie told me the loch would be infinitely improved, if five sixths 
of the fish were netted out of it; the trout would run to a better 
size. However, Miss Yolande, since you’ve treated him badly, you 
must make amends. You must ask him to dinner.” 

” Oh, yes, papa; 1 shall be glad to do that,” she said, blithely. 


124 


YOLANDE. 


“ If the house is anywhere near the road, we can pick him up as 
we go along. Then I suppose you could send a message to the 
Master, he is not likely to have an engagement.” 

‘‘But you don’t mean for to-night,” she said, in amazement. 

” 1 do, indeed. Why not?” 

‘‘ What! The first night that we have to ourselves together, to 
think of inviting strangers?” 

‘‘ Strangers?” he repeated. ” That is an odd phrase to be used 
by a young lady who wears an engaged ring.” 

‘‘ But I am not married yet, papa,” said she, flushing slightly. 
*‘ 1 am only engaged. When 1 am a wife, it may be different; but 
at present I am your daughter.” 

” And you would rather that we had this first evening all by our- 
selves?” 

‘‘ It is not a wish, papa,” said she, coolly. “It is a downright 
certainty. There is only dinner for two; and there will be only 
dinner for two; and these two are you and I. Do you forget that 1 
am mistress of the house?” 

Well, he seemed nothing loath: the prospect did not at all over- 
cloud his face — as they drove away through this smiling and cheer- 
ful and picturesque country, with the severer altitudes beyond 
gradually coming into view. 

That same night, Yolande and her father set out for an arm-in-arm 
stroll away down the broad silent valley. It was late, but still there 
was a bewilderment of light all around them; for in the northwest- 
ern heavens the wan light still lingered; while behind them, in the 
southeast, the moon had arisen, and now projected their shadows 
before them as they walked. Yolande was talkative and joyous — 
the silence and the loneliness of the place did not seem to oppress 
her; and he was always a contented listener. They walked away 
along the strath, under the vast solitudes of the hills, and by the side 
of this winding and murmuring stream; and in time they reached 
the loch. For a w^onder, it was perfectly still. The surface was 
like glass; and those portions that were in shadow were black as 
jet. But these were not many, for the moonlight was shining 
adown this wide space, touching softly the overhanging crags and 
the woods, and showing them — as they go on still further — above 
the loci] and the bridge and tl^ river, and standing silent amid the 
silent plantations, the pale white walls of Lynn. 

” And so you think, Yolande,” said he, ” that you will be quite 
happy in living in this solitary place?” 

” If you were always to be away — oh, no; but with you coming 
to see me sometimes, as n^, oh, yes, yes — why not?” said she, 
cheer full 3 ^ 

“ You wouldn’t mind being cut off from the rest of the world,” 
he said. 

“I?” she said. ” What is it to me? I know so few i^eople else- 
where. ’ ’ 

“It would be a peaceful life, Yolande,” said he, thoughtfully. 
“Would it not?” ^ 

“Oh, yes,” she answered, brightljr. “And then, papa, you 
vrould take Allt-nam-ba for the whole j'ear, every 3 ’^ear, and not 
merely have a few weeks’ shooting in the autumn, Why should it 


TOLANDE. 


125 

Dol be a pleasant place to live in? Could anything be more beauti- 
ful than to-night — and the solitude? And one or two of the people 
are so kind. But this I must tell you, papa, that the one who has 
been kindest to me here is not Lord Lynn, nor his sister, Mrs. CoL 
quhoun, nor any one of them, but Mrs Bell; and the first chance, 
when she is sure not to meet Mr. Melville, or Mr. Leslie — for she 
is very particular about that, and pretends only to be a housekeeper 
— I am going to bring her up to Allt-nam-ba; and you will 
see how charming she is, and how good and wise and gentle, 
and how proud she is of Mr. Melville. As for him, he laughs 
at her. He laughs at every one. He has no respect for any 
one more, than another; he talks to Lord Lynn as he talks to 
Duncan — perhaps with more kindness to Duncan, Rich or 
poor, it is no difference — no, he does not seem to understand that 
there is a difference. And all the people, the shepherds, the gillies, 
and Mrs. Macdougal at the farm — every one thinks there is no one 
like him. Perhaps I have learnt a little from him, even in so short 
a time? — it may be. I do not care that Mrs. Bell has been a cook; 
that is nothing to me; I see that she is a good woman, and clever, 
and kind; and 1 will be her friend if she pleases; and I know that 
he gives her more honor than to any one else, though he does not 
say much. No, he is too sarcastic, and not very courteous. Some- 
times he is almost rude; but he is a iittle more considerate with old 
people ” 

“Look here, Yolande,” her father said, with a laugh, “all this 
afternoon, and all this evening, and all down this valley 5mu have 
done nothing but talk about this wonderful Mr. Melville — although 
you say you have scarcely ever seen him ’’ 

“No, no, no, papa! I said, when he had done any kindness to me, 
he had kept out of the way ana 1 had no chance to thank him.” 

“ Very well, all your talking has produced nothing but a jumble. 
1 want to see this laird without land, this Balliol clockmaker, this 
fisherman schoolmaster, this idol who is worshiped by the natives. 
Let me see what he is like, first of all. Ask him to dinner — and the 
Master, too. We have few neighbors, and we must make the most 
of them. So now let us get back home again, child; though it is 
almost a shame to go indoors on such a night. And you don’t really 
think you would regret being shut off from the world, Yolande, in 
this solitude?’' 

She was looking along the still loch, and the wooded shores, and 
the moonlit crags that were mirrored in the glassy water, and her 
eyes were happy enough. 

“ Is it not like fairy-land, papa? How could one regret living in 
such a beautiful place? Besides,” she added, cheerfull}’, “ have I 
not promised?” And therewith she held outlier ungloved hand for 
a second; and he understood what she meant: for lie saw the three 
diamonds on her engagement-ring in the clear moonlight. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Melville’s welcome home.” 

Amid all the hurry and bustle of preparing for the 12th, Yolande 
and her affairs seemed half forgotten ; and she, for one, was glad to 


126 


TOLANDE. 


forget them; for she rejoiced in the activity of the moment; and 
was proud to see that the wheels of the little household worked very 
smoothly. And long ago she had mastered all the details about the 
luncheon to be sent up the hill, and the dinner for the gillies, and 
what not; she had got her instructions from Mrs. Graham at Inver- 
stroy. 

In the midst of all this, however, the Master of Lynn wrote the 
following note to his sister: — 

“ Lynn Towers, August 8. 

“ Dear Polly, — I wish to goodness you would come over here 
for a couple of days, and put matters straight. I am helpless. I 
go for a little quiet to Allt-nam-ba. I would ask Jack Melville to 
interfere; but he is so blunt-tongued he would most likely make the 
row worse. Of course it’s all Tabby: if ever I succeed to liynn, 
won’t 1 make the old cat skip out of that. I expected my father to be 
cross, when I suggested something about Yolande. But I thought 
he would see the reasonableness, &c. But Tabby heard of it; and 
then it was all ‘ alliance with demagogues,’ ‘ disgrace of an ancient 
family,’ ‘ the Leslies selling their honor for money,’ and other rub- 
bish. 1 don’t mind. It doesn’t hurt me. 1 have not knocked about 
with Jack Melville for nothing: I can distinguish between missiles 
that are made of air and pass by you, and missiles that are made of 
granite or wood, and can cut your head open. But the immediate 
thing is this: they won’t call on the Winterbournes; and this is not 
only a gross discourtesy, but very impolitic. 1 should not at all 
wonder, if Mr. Winterbourne has a good season this year, if he were 
to take a lease of Allt-nam-ba; and Duncan is reckoning on twelve 
hundred brace. As a good tenant, my father ought to call on Mr, 
Winterbourne, if for nothing else. And, of course, matters cannot 
remain as they are. There must be an explanation. What I am 
dreadfully afraid of is that Yolande may meet Tabby some day, and 
that Tabby may say something. At present they have only met 
driving — 1 mean since you left — so that was only a case of bowing. 
To hear Tabby talk would make you laugh; but it makes me rather 
wild, I confess; and though my father says less, or nothing at all, 1 
can see that what she says is making him more and more determined. 
So do come alon^ and bring some common sense into the atmosphere 
of the house. What on earth has politics got to do with Yolande? 
Come and fight it out with Tabby. 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“ A. Leslie.” 

This was the answer, that arrived on the evening of the next day: 

“ Inverslroy, August 9. 

” Dear Archie, — You must have gone mad. We have five visi- 
tors in the house already, and by the day after to morrow we shall 
be full to the hall door. It is quite absurd; Jim has not asked a 
single bachelor this year; and every man who is coming i-s bringing 
his wife. Did you ever hear of such a thing— really I can’t under- 
stand why women should be such fools: not a single invitation 
refused! But there is one Wi'mg— they will get a good dose of grouse- 
talk before they go south; and if they are not heartily sick of hearing 


YOLAKDE. 


127 

about stags it will be a wonder. So you see, my dear Master, you 
must worry out of that muddle in your own way; and I have no 
doubt you got into it througli temper, and being uncivil to Aunt 
Colquhoim. It is impossible for me to leave Inverstroy at present. 
But, whatever you do, don’t get spiteful and go and run away with 
Shena Vdn. ^ ^ 

“ Your affectionate sister, Polly.” 

Well, it was not until the eve of the 12th that Yolande gave her 
first dinner-party; the delay having chiefly been occasioned by 
their having to wait for some wine from Inverness. Tnis was a 
great concession on the part of her father; but when he discovered 
that she was desperately afraid that her two guests, the Master of 
Lynn and Mr. Melville, would imagine that the absence of wine 
from the table was due to her negligence and stupidity as a house- 
keeper he yielded at once. Nay, in case they might throw any 
blame on her of any kind, her father himself wrote to a firm in In- 
verness, laying strict injunctions on them as to brands, and so 
forth. All of which trouble was quite thrown away, as it turned 
out, for both the young men seemed quite indifferent about drinking 
anything; but the wine was there, and Yolande could not be blamed; 
that was his chief and only consideration. 

Just before dinner, Mr. Winterbourne, Yolande, and the Master 
were standing outside the lodge, looking down the wide glen, which 
was now flooded with sunset light. Young Leslie’s eyes were the 
eyes of a deerstalker; the slightest movement anywhere instantly 
attracted them; and when two sheep — little dots they were, at the 
far edge of the hill just above the lodge — suddenly ceased grazing 
and lifted their heads, he knew there must be some one there. The 
next moment a figure appeared on the sky-line. 

“ I suppose that is Jack Melville,” he said, peevishly. “ I wish 
he wouldn’t come across the forest when he is up at his electric 
boxes.” 

“ But does he do harm?” said Yolande. ‘‘ He cannot shoot deer 
with copper wires.” 

” Oh, he’s all over the place,” said the Master of Lynn. ” And 
there isu’t a keeper or a watcher who will remonstrate with him; 
and of course I can’t. He’s always after his botany, or his fishing, 
or something. The best thing about it is that he is a capital hand 
to have with you if there are any stray deer about, and you want to 
have a shot without disturbing the herd. He knows their ways 
most wonderfully, and can tell you the track they are certain to 
take.” 

Meanwhile the object of these remarks was coming down the hill- 
side at a swinging pace; and very soon he had crossed the little 
bridge, and was coming up the path — heralding his arrival with a 
frank and careless greeting to his friends. He was a rather tall, 
lean, large-boned ahd powerful-looking man of about eight-and- 
twenty; somewhat pale in face, seeing that he lived so much out of 
doors; his hair a raven black; his eyes gray, penetrating, and stead- 
fast; his mouth firm, and yet mobile and expressive at times; his 
forehead, square rather than lofty; his voice, a chest-voice, was 
heard in pleasant and well modulated English; he had not acquired 


YOLAKDE. 


128 

any trace of the high falsetto that prevails (or prevailed a few years 
ago?) among the young men at Oxford. As for his manner, that 
was characterized chiefly by a curious simplicity and straightfor- 
wardness. He seemed to have no time to be self-conscious. When 
he spoke to any one, it was without thought or heed of any bystand- 
er. With that one person he had to do. Him or her he seized, 
with look and voice; and even after the most formil introduction 
he would speak to you in the most simple and direct way, as if life 
were not long enough to be wasted in conventionalities; as if truth 
were the main thing; as' if all human beings were perfectly alike; 
and as if there was no reason in the world why this new stranger 
should not be put on the footing of a friend. If he had an affecta- 
tion, it was to represent himself as a lazy and indolent person, who 
believed in tiothing, and laughed at everything, whereas he was 
extremely industrious and indefatigable; while there were certainly 
two or three things that he believed in — more, perhaps, than he 
would confess. 

“Here, Miss Winterbourne,” said he, “is the little vasculum I 
spoke to you about; it has seen some service, but it may do well 
enough. And here is Bentley’s Manual ; and a Flora. The Floi'a 
is an old one; I brought an old one purposely, for at the beginning 
there is a synopsis of the Linnsean system of classification, and you 
will find that the easiest way of making out the name of a new plant. 
Of course,” he added, when he had put the vasculum and the books 
on the window-sill, and come back, “when you get further on; 
when you begin to see how all these plants have grown to be what 
they are; when you come to study the likenesses and relationships' — 
and unless you mean to go so far you are only wasting time to begin 
— you will follow’^ Jussieu and De Candolle; but in the meantime 
you will find the Linnaean system a very dodgy instrument when 
you are in a difficulty. Then, another thing — mind, I am assuming 
that you mean business — if you want to frivvle. and pick pretty 
poses, I shut my door on you — but, I say, if you mean business, I 
have told Mrs. Bell you are to have access to my herbarium, whether 
I am there or not ” 

But here Yolande began to laugh. 

“ Oh, yes, that is so probable!” said she. “Mrs. Bell allowing 
me to go into your study!” 

“ Mrs. Bell and I understand each other very well, I assure you,” 
he said, gravely. “ We are only two augurs, who wink at each 
other; or rather we shut oar eyes to each other’s humbug ” 

“ Why, Jack, she means to buy back Monaglen for you!” the 
Master of Lynn exclaimed. 

“ I know she has some romantic scheme of that sort in her head,” 
he said, -frankly. “It is quite absurd. What should I do with 
Monaglen? However, in the meantime, I have made pretty free use 
of the old lady’s money at Gross; and she is highly pleased, for she 
was fond of my father’s family, and she likes to hear me spoken 
well of, and you can so easily purchase gratitude — especially with 
somebody else’s money. You see, it works well all. round. Mrs. 
Beil, who is an honest, shrewd, good, kindly woman, sees that her 
charity is administered with some care; the people around — but 
especially the children — are benefited; I have leisure for any little 


YOLANDE. 129 

experiments and my idle rambles; and if Mrs. Bell and I hoodwink 
each other, it is done very openly, and there is no great harm.” 

” She was very indignant,” said young Leslie, laughing, “when 
you wouldn’t have your name put on the tablet ip the school-house.” 

” What tablet?” said Yolaude. 

” Oh, a tablet saying that Mr. Melville had built the school and 
presented it to the people of Gress.” 

” And I never contributed a farthing!” he said. “She did the 
whole thing. Well, now, that sliows how artificial the position !s; 
and, necessarily, it won’t last. AVe have for so long been hypocrites 
for the public good — let us say it was for the public good; but there 
must come an end.” 

” Why, Jack, if you leave Gress 5'ou’ll fairly break the old dame’s 
heart. And as for the neighborhood — it will be like the going away 
of Aikendrum.” 

” Who was that?” said Yolande. 

“ I am sure I don’t know. Mrs. Bell will sing the song for you, 
if you ask her; she knows all those old things. I don’t know who 
the gentleman was; but they made a rare fuss about his going away. 

‘ ’Bout him the carles were gabbin’ 

The braw laddies sabbin’, 

And a’ th» lasses greetin’ 

For that Aikendrum’s awa’.’ ” 

“The dinner is ready, madam,” said a soft-voiced and pretty 
Highland maid- servant, appearing at the door; and Yolande’a heart 
sank within her. She summoned up her courage, nevertheless; she 
walked into the room sedately, and took her place at the head of the 
table with much graciousness, though she was in reality very nerv- 
ous and terribly anxious about the result of this wild experiment. 
Well, she need not have been anxious. The dinner was excellently 
cooked, and very fairly served. And if those two younger men 
seemed quite indifferent as to what they ate and drank, and much 
more interested in a discussion about certain educational matters, at 
least Mr. Winterbourne noted and approved; and greatly comforted 
was she from time to time to hear him say; ” Yolande, this is capital 
hare soup; 'why can’t we get hare soup cooked in this way in the 
south?” or “Yolande, these are most delicious trout. Mr. Mel- 
ville’s catching, I suppose? It seems to me you’ve stumbled on an 
uncommonly good cook;” or “AVhat? Another roery of Mrs. 
Bell’s poultry-yard? Well, they’re fine birds — noble, noble. We 
must send her some grouse, to-rnorrow', Yolande.” 

And then outside there was a sudden and portentous growl of bass 
drones; and then the breaking away into the shrill clear music of a 
quickstep; and through the blue window panes they could see in 
the dusk the tall, tightly built figure of young Duncan, the pipes 
over his shoulder, marching erect and proud up and down the gravel 
path. That was the proper way to hear the pipes — away up there 
in the silence of the hills, amid the gathering gloom of the night; 
and no\v they would grow louder and shriller as he drew near, and 
now they would grow fainter and fainter as he passed by, while all 
around them, whkher the music was faint or shrill, was the continu- 
ous hushed murmur of mountain streams. 

“ I told Duncan,” said Yolande, to the Master, “ that it was a 


130 


YOLAKDE. 


shame he should keep all his playing for the shepherds in the bothy. 
And he told me that he very well knew the Hills of Lynn.'' 

Young Leslie regarded her with an odd kind of smile. 

“ You don’t think that is the Hills of Lynn, do you, Yolande?” 

“ Is it not? I have heard very few.”* 

“No; I am not first favorite to-night. It isn’t the Hills of Lynn. 
That is Melville's Welcome Home." 

Yolande looked surprised, but not in any way guilty. 

“I assure you, Miss Winterbourne,” said Jack Melville, pleas- 
antly enough, “that I don’t feel at all hurt or insulted. I know 
Duncan means no sarcasm. He is quite well aw'are that wp haven’t 
had a home to welcome us this many a day; but he is not playing 
the quickstep out of irony. He and I are too old friends for that.” 

“ Oh, I am sure he does not mean anything like that,” said Yo- 
lande. “ It is a great compliment he means, is it not?” 

Then coffee came; and cigars and pipes were produced; and as 
Yolande had no dread of tobacco smoke, they all remained together, 
drawing in their chairs to the brisk fire of wood and peat, and form- 
ing a very friendly, snug, and comfortable little circle. .Nor was 
their desultory chatting about educational projects solely; nor, on 
the other hand, was it confined to grotise and the chances of the 
weather; it rambled over many and diverse subjects, while always, 
from time to time, could be heard in the distance (for Duncan had 
retired to regale his friends in the bothy) the faint echoes of The 
lath’s Farewell to Gibraltar, or Mackenzie's Farewell to Sutherland, or 
The Barren Bocks a f Aden, with occasionally the sad, low wail of a 
lament — Lord Lovat's, or Mackintosh' s, or MacCrimmon's. And as 
Mr. Melville proved to be a very ready talker (as he lay back there 
in an easy-chair with the warm rays of the fire lighting up his fine 
intellectual features and clear and penetrating gray eyes) Mr. Win- 
terbourne had an abundant opportunity of studying this new friend; 
and so far from observing in him any of the browbeating and 
brusqueness he had heard of. on the contrary, he discovered the 
most ample tolerance, and, more than that, a sort of large-hearted 
humanity, a sympathy, a sincerity and directness of speech that 
began to explain to him why Mr. Melville of (rress was such a 
favorite with those people about there. He seemed to assume that 
the person he was talking to was his friend; and that it was useless 
to waste time in formalities of conversation. His manner toward 
Yolande (her father thought) was characterized by just a little too 
much of indifference; but then he was a schoolmaster, and not in 
the habit of attaching importance to the opinions of young people. 

It was really a most enjoyable, confidential pleasant evening; but 
it had come to an end; and when the two young men left, both Yo- 
lande and her father accompanied them to the door. The moon was 
risen now, and the long wide glen looked beautiful enough. 

“ Well, now, Mr. Melville,” said Mr. Winterbourne, as they were 
going away, “ whenever you have an idle evening, I hope you will 
remember us and take piiy on us.” 

“You may see too much of me.” 

“ That is impossible,” said Yolande, quickly; and then she add- 
ed, very prettily: “You know, Mr. Melville, if you come often 


\OLAis'DE. 


131 


enough yon will find it quite natural that Dunoan should play for 
yo\x Melville' s Welcome Home." 

He stood for a moment uncertain; it was the first sign of embar- 
rassment he had shown that night. 

“ Well,” said he, ” that is the most friendly thing that has been 
said to me for many a day. Who could resist such an invitation? 
Good night — good night!” 


CHAPTER XXI 

NEIGHBORS. 

John Shortlands, as it turned out, could not come north till the 
20lh; so that Mr. Winterbourne asked young Leslie to shoot with 
him for the first week; and the invitation had been gratefully ac- 
cepted. The obligation, however, was not ail on one side. The 
Master of Lynn was possessed of a long and familiar experience of 
the best and swiftest methods of getting the birds sent to a good 
market; and he made his arrangements in this direction with a busi- 
ness like forethought which amused Mr. Winterbourne, who ex- 
pressed some whimsical scruples over his being transformed into a 
game-dealer. 

” I don’t look at it in that light at all,” the Master said, coolly. 
“Game is the only thing land like that will produce; and I like to 
knoN^ what it is wmrth. I think I can guarantee that the hire of the 
gillies and ponies and panniers won’t cost 3 'ou a farthing.” 

“ You should not be so anxious to have your own moor hard, 
shot,” said Mr. Winterbourne, with a smile. 

“ But I am,” said this shrewd young man. “ There is no danger, 
on ground like this, of too small a breeding stock being left. It is 
all the other way. What I am afraid of is too big a stock; and the 
disease coming along. That is a terrible business. You are con- 
gratulating yourself on the number of birds, and on their fine con- 
dition; and some pleasant morning you wake up to find the place 
swept clean.” 

“ Xot in one night?” 

“ Well, a day or two will do it. This epidemic is quite different 
from the ordinary mild forms of disease, where you can see the birds 
pining away to death. Instead of that 5 mu find them all about 
among the heather, dead, but perfectly plump and well-looking, not 
a sign of disease outside or in. So, if you please, Mr. Winterbourne, 
don’t have any scruples about turning on Duncan if you think we 
are not doing well enough. The bigger consignments we can send 
off the better.” 

Now qne consequence of this arrangement w'as that when Yo- 
lande, in the morning, had said, “ Good-by, papal” and “ Good by, 
Archie!” and given each of them a flower or some such trifle (for in 
that part of the country the presentation of a small gift, no matter 
w'hat, to any one going shooting, is supposed to bring good luck), 
and when she had seen that luncheon w'as quite prepared to be sent 
up th 3 hill when the first pony left, she found herselfwith the whole 
day before her, with no companion, and with no occupation save 


132 


YOLANDE. 


that of wandering down the glen or up one of the hillsides in search 
of new flowers. It is not lo be wondered at, then, that she should 
seek some variety bj’’ occasionally driving into Gresa, when the dog- 
cart was taking the game shot the day before to Foyers, and j pend- 
ing a few hours with Mrs. Bell until the trap came back to pick her 
up again. For one thing, when she discovered some plant unknown 
to her, she found it much easier to consult Mr. Melville’s herbarium 
than to puzzle over the descriptions of the various species in the 
Flora; and as he was generally occupied either in the school-house 
or in his laboratory, she did not interfere with him. But the truth 
is, she liked this shrewd, kindly, wise old Scotchwoman, who was 
the only one in the neighborhood who took any notice of her. The 
people at the Towers had neither called nor made any other over- 
tures. And as Mrs. Bell's thoughtfulness and kindness took the 
substantial form of sending up to Allt-nam-ba, pretty nearly every- 
day some article or articles likely to be of use to the young house- 
keeper, of course Yolande had to drive in to thank her. 

“ Mrs. Bell,” said she, one warm and sunnj^afternoon, when they 
were together in the garden (this good woman made awful havoc 
among her flowers when Yolande came to see her), ” who was 
Aikendrum?” 

” A young lad who went away for a sodger — so the song says.” 

*‘ And every one w’as so sorry, is it not so?” said this tall young 
lady, who already had her hands full of flowers. ” The Master was 
saying that if Mr. Melville leaves here, everyone will be quite sorry 
— it will be like the going away of Aikendrum.” 

” Why should he go?” said Mrs. Beil, sharply. ” Why should 
he not siay among his own people — yes, and on land that may be his 
own one day?” And then she added more gently: ‘‘ It is not a good 
thing for one to be away among strangers; there’s many a sore heart 
comes o’ that. It’s not only them th^at are left behind, sometimes 
it’s the one that goes away that is sorrowin’ enough about it. I 
dare say, now, ye never heard o’ an old Scotch song they call ‘ The 
sun rises bright in France?’ ” 

” Oh, will you sing it for me?” said Yolande, eagerly; for indeed 
the reputation of this good dame for the singing of those old Scotch 
songs was wide in that district: though it was not every one whom 
she would honor. And her singing was strangel}’- effective. She 
had but little of a voice; she crooned rather than sang; but she 
could give the words a curious pathetic quality; and she had the 
natural gift of knowing what particular airs she could make tell. 

She laid her hand on Yolande’s arm — as if to ask for attention: 

“ The sun rises bright in France, 

And fair sets he ; 

But he has tint the blink he had 
In my ain countrie. 

It’s no my ain i-iiin 
That weets ave my e'e. 

But the dear Marie I left behind 
Wi’ sweet bairnies three.” 


” Ye’ve no heard that before?” 

” Oh, no. It’s a very sad air. But why Marie?— that is French.” 


TOLAIfDE. 


133 

“ Well, ye see, the Freanh and the Scotch were very thick* in 
former days; and Marie was a common name in Scotland. I am 
told they spoke nothing but French at Holyrood; and the young 
gentlemen, they were all for joining the French service ” 

“ But is there no more of the song, Mrs. Bell?” 

‘‘Oh, ay; there are other two verses. But it’s no for an auld 
wife like me to be singing havers.” 

‘‘ Please!” 

‘‘ Very well, then: 

“ The bud comes back to summer, 

And the blossom to the tree, 

But I win back — oh, never, 

To my aiu eountrie. 

Gladness comes to many. 

Sorrow comes to me, 

As I look o’er the wide ocean 
To my ain eountrie. 

“ Fu’ bienly low’d my ain hearth. 

And smiled my ain Marie : 

Oh ! I’ve left ray heart behind 
• In my ain eountrie ! 

O I’m leal to high heaven. 

Which aye was leal to me ! 

And it’s there I’ll meet ye a’ soon, 

Frae my ain eountrie.” i 

” It is a beautiful air — but so sad,” Yolande said; and then she 
added, slyly, ‘‘ and now Aikendrmn.” 

But Mrs. Bell doggedly refused. 

‘‘ I tell ye it’s no for an auld wife like me to be fashing with such 
blethers; it’s for young lassies when they’re out at the herding. 
And I hope, now, that ye are no likely to put any Aiksndrum notions 
into Mr, Melville’s head. Let him stay where he is. May be we’ll 
get him a better stance j; in the counlry-side soon; stranger things 
have come to pass.’* 

‘‘ I? said Yolande; ‘‘ is it likely I should wish him to go away? 
Perhaps you do not know, then, that I am going to live in this neigh- 
borhood — no?” 

” Oh, indeed; is that possible noo?” said Mrs, Bell — and she 
would say no more. She was herself most kindly and communica- 
ble; but always she preserved a certain reserve of manner in a case 
like this — it was not her “place” to betray curiosity. However, 
Yolande was quite frank. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the young lady, cheerfully. “ Of course I must 
live here when I am married; and of course, too, I look forward to 
seeing Mr. Melville always. He will be our nearest friend — almost 
the only one. But it is so difficult to catch him. Either he is in the 
school; or he is up at the water wheel — whv, this moment, now if I 
could see him, I would ask him to drive out to Allt-nam-ba, when 
the carriage comes, and stiW to dine with us.” 

“ I wish ye would — eh, 1 wish ye wmuld, my dear young leddy!” 


* Thick— intimate. 

t The words of this song are by Allan Cunningham ; the music is an old 
Celtic air. 

t Stance— holding or position. 


134 


YOLANDE. 


the old dame exclaimed. “ For the way he goes on is just distress- 
ing. Not a settled proper meal wi.l he sit down to! nothing but a 
piece of cc'ld meat aye to be standing by. There it is— in there 
among they smelling chemical things — da}’’ and night there must aye 
be the same thing on the side table waiting for him — some cold 
meat, a bit o’ bread, and a wee, scrimpit, half pint bottle o’ that 
fushionless claret wine that is not one breen -point better than vine- 
gar. And then when he gives the bairns a day’s holiday, and starts 
away for Loch-na-lairige — a place that no one has ever won to but 
the shepherds — not a thing in his pocket but a piece o’ bread and 
cheese. How he keeps up his strength— a big-boned man like that 
— passes me. If ye want to anger him, that’s the way to do it — 
compel him to sit doon to a respectable meal and get the lasses to 
prepare a few things for him in a clever kind o’ way, as ye would 
get in any Christian bouse. Well, many a time I think if that’s 
the maiuner they train young men at Oxford they would be better 
brought up at another place. And what is the use of it? His means 
are far beyond his wants — I take care there is no wasterfulness in 
the housekeeping, for one thing; and even if they w’ere not, is there 
not my money? — and a proud woman I would be that day that he 
would take a penny of it!” 

At this moment the object of these remarks came out of the labo- 
ratory — a small building standing at right angles with the house — 
and he was buttoning his coat as if he had just put it on. 

” Good afternoon, Miss Winterbourne,” said he, and he seemed 
very pleased to see her as he look her hand for a second. ” I 
thought I heard your voice. And I have got a word of approval for 
you.” 

” Oh, indeed?” said she, smiling; for occasionally his school- 
master air and his condescending frankness amused her. 

“ I had a look over my herbarium last night; you have been very 
careful.” 

“You thought I should not be?” 

“ I did not know. But if there had been any confusion or mis- 
chief done, I should not have mentioned it — no, probably I should 
have let you have your will; on'y, I would ne^er have allowed any 
one else to go near the place; so, you see, you would have been in- 
flicting injury on an unknown number of persons in the future.” 

“ But how wrong not to tell me!” she exclaimed, 

“ Oh, you have been careful enough. Indeed, you have taken 
unnecessary trouble. It is quite enough if the different genera are 
kept separate; it is not necessary that the species should follow in 
the same order as they are in the Floi'a. You must not give your- 
self that trouble again,” 

“ When the dog-cart comes along,” said she, “ I hope you will 
drive out with me to Allt nam-ba, and spend the evening with us.” 

“ You are very kind.” 

“ No, I am scheming,” she said. “ The truth is the fishmonger 
at Inverness has disappointed me — no, no, no, Mrs. Bell, on the 
whole he has been very good; but this time there is a mistake, and 
do you think, Mr. Melville, if you were taking your rod you could 
get me a few trout out of the loch on the w’ay home? ‘ Is it too 
much to ask?” 


YOLANDE. 


136 

lie glanced at the sky. “ I think we might manage it,” said he, 

though it is rather clear. There may be a breeze on the loch; 
there generally is up there. But what we ought to do is to set out 
now, and walk it; and let the trap pick us up at the loch. Can you 
walk so far?” 

”T should think so!” said Yolande. ” And be delighted too ” 

” Well, I will go and get my rod and basket. Then as we go 
along I can tell 'you the names of any plants you don’t know; or an- 
swer any questions that may be puzzling you. Don’t be afraid to 
ask. I like it. It helps to keep one’s recollections clear. Ami I 
never laugh at ignorance; it is the pretense of knowledge that is 
contemptible.” 

They did not, however, talk botany exclusively as they walked 
away from Gress, on this beautiful afternoon; for he very speedily 
discovered that she knew far more about him and his family and 
his alBFairs than he could possibly have imagined. 

” The days in Egypt were long,” she explained, ” and the Master 
used to tell me all about this neighborhood until, when I came to 
it, everything seemed quite familiar.” 

” You have been a great traveler,” he said. 

” Yes; we have traveled about a good deal. And you?” 

” Not much. I think I am too lazy. The kind of traveling that 
I enjoy is to sit out in the garden of a summer evening, in an easy- 
chair and to watch the sunset, and, perhaps, the moon slowly 
rising ” 

” But you said traveling,” she said. 

"Well, you are hurling along at the rate of sixty-eight thousand 
miles an hour; isn’t that quick enough ior anything?” he said, 
laughing. 

” It is a cheap way of traveling,” said she, with a smile. 

” That is why it suits me.” 

” But yon don’t see much.” 

” No! Not when you can watch the stars appear one by one, 
over the hilltops? Don’t you think they are as interesting as the 
shops in the Palais Royal? They are more mysterious, at all events. 
It does seem odd, you know, when you think of the number of 
human beings all over the world — the small, tiny creatures — sticking 
up their little tin tubes at the midnight sky, and making guesses at 
what the stars are made of, and how they came to be there. It is a 
pathetic kind of a thing to think about. I fancy I must try a ‘ Zulu ’ 
and a ‘ March Brown!’ ” 

This startling non, sequitiir was caused by the fact that by this 
time they had reached the loch; and that he frequently thought 
aloud in this fashion, heedless of any incongruity, and heedless also 
of his companion. lie sat down on a lump of granite, and took out 
his fly-book. 

” Won’t you walk on to the lodge. Miss Winterbourne?” said he. 
“lam going to drift down in the boat, and it will be slow work for 
you. ’ ’ 

” I will wait on the bank,” said she, “ and watch. Do you not 
understand lhat I am seriously interested?” 

” Then you will see whether I get any. It is a sport,” he added, 
as he was selecting the flies, ” that there is less to be said against 


136 


YOLAKDE. 


than shooting, I imagine. I don’t like the idea of shooting birds; 
especially after I have missed one or two. Birds are such harmless 
creatures. But the fish is different — the. fish is making a murderous 
snap at an innocent fly, or what he thinks to be a fly, when a little 
bit of steel catches him in the very act. It serves liim right, from 
the moral point of view.” 

‘‘ But surely lie is justified in trying to get his dinner,” said she. 
” Just as you are doing now?” 

” Well, I will put on a jay’s wing also,” said he, ” and if they 
don’t like one or other of those nice wholesome little dishes, we 
must try them with something else.” 

As it happened, however, the trout seemed disposed to rise to any- 
thing; for it was a good fishing afternoon — warm, with a light wind 
ruffling the surface of the loch. By the time the dog-cart came 
along he had got close on two dozen in his basket, averaging about 
three to the pound, so that a selection from them would do very 
well for dinner; and when he got ashore, and got into the trap, 
Yolande thanked him for them very prettily, while he, on the other 
hand, said that the obligation was all on his side. 

” Why do you not come oftener, then?” she said, as they were 
driving along up the wide glen. 

” I might be depriving some one else of the use of the boat,” he 
answered. 

” No, no; how can that be?” she insisted. ” They .are all day up 
the hill. '\Wiy do you not come to the lock every afternoon, and 
then come in and spend the evenings with us. Mrs. Befl says you 
do very wrong about your food, not having proper meals, at proper 
times. Now we are always very punctual; and if you come in and 
dine with us, it would teach you good habits.” 

” You are too kind, Miss Winterbourne,” said he. ” But please 
don’t think that I have forgotten the invitation you gave me the 
other night. I could not be so uni^rateful as that.” 

“ And the use of remembering, if you do not act on it?” said she 
— but she could not lecture the schoolmaster any further just then, 
for they had arrived at the wooden bridge, and she had to let the cob 
go very cautiously over that primitive structure. 

After dinner that evening, Mr. Winterbourne begged tobe excused 
for a short time, as he had a letter to write that he wished posted at 
Whitebridge the same night. This was the letter: — 

< “ Allt-nam-ba, August 15 

” Dear Shortlands, — I am sending you a couple of brace of 
birds, and would send you more, but that I can see that my future 
son-in-law regards these becjuests with great disfavor; and as it is in 
my interest that he is trying to make as much as he can out of the 
shooting, I don’t like to interfere with his economical exertions. 
Prudence in a young man should be encouraged rather than checked. 
I hope you will not be later than the 20th. I shad be glad to have 
you here. The fact is, I have been torturing myself with doubts 
and questions, which may appear to you uncalled for. I hope they 
are uncal ed for. Indeed, to all appearance, everything is going ou 
well. Yolande is in the brightest spirits, and is delighted with the 
place; and young Leslie seems very proud of her and affectionate. 


YOLANDE. 


137 

'l*he only thing is whether I should not have pul the whole facts of 
the case before him at the outset; and whether I am not bound in 
honor to do so now, before the serious step of marriage is taken. I 
don't know. I am afraid to do it; and afraid of what might hap- 
pen if I remain silent. There is a young man here, a Mr. Melville, 
who was Leslie’s tutor, and who remains his intimate associate and 
friend. He is very highly respected about here; and, as I judge, 
seems to deserve the high opinion every one has of him. What I 
am thinking of now is the propriety of laying the whole affair be- 
fore him, as Leslie’s nearest friend. He knows the other members 
of the family also. I could trust him to give an honest opinion; 
and if he, knowing all the circumstancj's of the case, and knowing 
Leslie, and the ways of the family, were to think it unnecessary to 
break silence, then I might be fairly justified in letting the thing be 
as it is. Do you not think so? But you will answer this question 
in person — not later than the 20th, I hope. 

“ For a long time I thought that, if Yolande were married and 
settled quietly in the country, there would be no further need for 
anxiety; but now I cannot keep from speculating on other possibili- 
ties, and wondering whether it would not be better to prevent any 
future ground of complaint, and consequent unhappmess, by telling 
the whole truth now. Surely that might be done without letting 
Yolande know? Why should she ever know? 

“ If you can leave on the night of the I8th, you will reach Inver- 
ness next forenoon, and catch the three p.m. boat down the Cale- 
donian Canal. Most likely you will find Yolande waiting for you 
at the pier; she likes driving. Our prospects for the 20th are fairly 
good; there is more cover for black game up those mountainous 
corries than I could liave expected. We shoot all we find, as they 
don’t stop here through the winter. On the 12th we had sixty eight 
brace grouse, one ptarmigan, one snipe and a few mountain hares; 
on the 13th seventy-one brace grouse, and also some hares; yester- 
day it was wet and wdld, and we only went out for an hour or so in 
the afternoon — nine brace; to-day was fine, and we got sixty-two 
brace grouse, and one and a half brace ptarmigan. Young Leslie 
is about the best all round shot I have ever seen; cool and certain. 
I think I get more nervous year by year; but then he is a capital 
hand at redeeming stakes; and that gives one a little more confi- 
dence. A stag and three hinds passed close by the lodge last night 
— at least so the shepherds say. 

“ I know you won’t mind my asking you to bring some little trifle 
or other for Yolande, Just to show that you were thinking of her. 
She will meet you at Foyers pier. 

“ Yours faithfully, 

“ G. R. WiNTERBOUENE.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ IM WALD UND AUP DER HEIDE.” 

Next morning there was a sudden call on Mr. Winterbourne to 
dismiss these fears and anxieties. The little community away up 
there in the solitude of the hills was suddenly thrown into violent 


138 


\OLAKDE. 


commotion. A young gillie who had been wandering about had 
come running back to the bothy, declaring thayhe had seen a stag 
go into the wood just above the lodge; and of course the news 
was immediately carried to the house; and instantly the two gentle- 
men came out— Mr. Winterbourne, eager and excited, the Master of 
Lynn not quite so sure of the truth of the report. Duncan, to tell 
the truth, was also inclined to doubt; for this young lad had, until 
the previous year, been a deck-hand on board the Caatle, and 

knew a great deal more about skarts and sea-gulls than about stags. 
Moreover, the shepherds had been through the wood this same morn- 
ing, with their dogs. However, it was determined, after much hur- 
ri^ consultation, not to miss the chance, if there was a chance. 
The day, in any case, threatened to turn out badly; the clouds were 
coming closer and closer down; to drive this wood would be a shoit 
and practicable undertaking that would carry them on conveniently 
to lunchtime. And so it w^as finally arranged that Mr. Winterbourne 
should go away by himself to a station that he knew, commanding 
certain gullies that the stag, if there were a stag, would most likely 
make for; while the Master would stay behind, and, after a calcu- 
lated interval, go through the wood with Duncan and the beaters. 

In the midst of all this Mias Yolande suddenly made her appear- 
ance, in a short-skirled dress, thick boots, and deerstalker’s cap. 

“ What do you want?” her father said, abruptly, and with a 
stare. 

” I am going with you,” was her cool answer. 

” Indeed you are not.” 

” Why not, then?” 

‘‘ Women going deerstalking!” he exclaimed. ” What next?” 

” Can I not be as quiet as any one? Why should I not go with 
you? I have climbed the hill many limes, and I know very well 
where to hide, for Duncan showed me the place.” 

‘‘ Go spin, you jade, go spin!” her father said, as he shouldered 
the heavy rifle, and set off on the long and weary struggle up the 
hill. 

Yolande turned to the Master. 

” Is he not unkind!” she said, in a crestfallen way. 

” If I were you,” said he, laughing, ” I would go all the same.” 

” Should I do anj’ harm? Is it possible that I could do any 
harm?” she asked quickly. 

Not a bit of it! What harm could you do? There is room for 
a dozen people to hide in that place; and if you keep your head just 
a little bit above the edge, and keep perfectly still, you will see the 
whole performance in the gully below. If there is a stag in the 
wood, and if I don’t get a shot at him, he is almost sure to go up 
through the gullies. You won’t screarA, I suppose? And don’t 
move— if you move a finger he will see you. And don’t tumble 
into too many moss-holes, Yolande, w^heu you are crossing the 
moor. And don’t break your ankles in a peat-hag. And don’t 
topple over the edge when you gel to the gullies.” 

*' Do you think you will frighten me? No, I am going as soon as 
papa is out of sight.” 

” Oh, you can’t go wrong,” said he, good-naturedly. ” The only 
thing is, when you get to the top of the hill, you might go on some 


YOLAKDE. 139 

three or four hundred yards before crossing the moor, so as to keep 
well back from the wood,” 

“ Oh, yes, certainly,” said Yolande. ” I understand very well.” 

Accordingly, some little time thereafter, she set out on her self- 
imposed task; and she was fully aware that it was a fairl3'^ arduous 
one. Even here at the outset it was pretty stiff work; for the hill 
rose sheer away from the little plateau on which the lodge stood, 
and the ground was rugged in some parts and a morass in others, 
while there was an abundance of treacherous holes where the heather 
grew long among the rocks. But she had certain landmarks to 
guide her. At first there was a sheep-track; then she made for two 
juniper bushes; then for certain conspicuous bowlders, then, higher 
up, she came on a rough and stony face where the climbing was 
prett}" difficult; then by the edge of a little hollow that had a tree or 
two in it; and then, as she was now nearly at the top, and as there 
was a smooth bowlder convenient, she thought she would sit down 
for a minute to regain her breath. Far below her the lodge and its 
dependencies looked like so many small toy-houses; she could see 
the tiny figures of human beings moving about; in the perfect silence 
she could hear the whining of the dogs shut up in the kennel. Then 
one of thCoe miniature figures waved something W’hite; she returned 
the signal. Then she rose and went on again; crossed a little burn; 
she passed along the edge of some steep gullies leading away down 
to the Corrie-an-Eich— that is, the Corrie of the Horses; and finally, 
after some further climbing, she reached the broad, wide, open, 
undulating moorland, from which nothing was visible but a wilder- 
ness of bare and bleak mountain tops, all as silent as the grave. 

She had been up here twice or thrice before; but she never came 
upon this scene of vast and voiceless desolation without being struck 
by a sort of terror. It seemed away out of the world. And on this 
morning a deeper gloom than usual hung over it; the clouds were 
low and heavy; there was a brooding stillness in the air. She was 
glad that some one had preceded her; the solitude of this place was 
terrible. 

And now as she set out to cross the wild moorland she discovered 
that that was a much more serious undertaking than when she had 
a friendly hand to lend her assistance from time to time. This wide 
plain of moss and bog and heather was intersected by a succession 
of peat hags, the oozy black soil of wdiich was much more easy to 
slide down into than to clamber out of. The Master of Lynn had 
taught her how to cross these hags; one step down, then a spring 
across, then her right hnnd grasped by his right hand, then 
her elbow caught by his left hand, and she stood secure on 
the top of the other bank. Bat now, as she scrambled down the 
one side, so she had to scramble up the other, generally laying 
hold of a bunch of heather to help her; and as she was anxious not 
to lose her way, she made a straight course across this desert waste, 
and did not turn aside for drier and smoother ground as one better 
acquainted with the moor might have done. However, she struggled 
on bravely. 

The first chill struck by that picture of desolation had gone. She 
was thinking more of the deer now. She hoped she would be up 
in time. She hoped her father would get a chance. And of course 


YOLANDE. 


140 

she made perfectly certain that, if he did ^et a chance, he would 
kill the stag; and then there would be a joyful procession back to 
the lodge; and a rare to-do among the servants and the gillies; with 
perhaps a dance in the evening, to the skirl of Duncan’s pipes. 

All at once a cold wind began to blow; and about a micute there- 
after she had no more idea of where she was than if she had been in 
the middle of the Atlantic. The whole world had been suddenly 
shut out from her; all she could see was a yard or two. either way, 
of the wet moss and heather. This gray cloud that had come along 
was raw to the throat and to the eyes; but it did not deposit much 
moisture on her clothes; its chief effect was the bewilderment of not 
seeing anything. And yet she thought she ought to go on. Per- 
haps she might get out of it. Perhaps the wind would carry it off. 
And so she kept on as straight as she could guess; but with much 
more caution; for at any moment she might fall into one of the deep 
holes worn by the streams in the peat, or into one of the moss-holes 
where the vegetation was so treacherously green. 

But as she went on and on, and could find nothing’ that she could 
recognize, she grew afraid. Moreover, there was a roaring of a 
waterfall somewhere which seemed to her louder than anything she 
had heard about there before. 

She began to wonder how far she had come: and to fear that in 
the mist she had lost her direction, and might be in the immediate 
neighborhood of some dangerous precipice. And then — as she was 
looking all round her helplessly — her heart stood still with frieht. 
There — away in that vague pall that encompassed her — stood the 
shadow, the ghost, of an animal, a large, visionary thing, motionless 
and noiseless, at a distance that she could not compute. And now 
she felt sure that that was the stag they were in search of; and, 
strangely enough, her agony of fear was not that she might by acci- 
dent be shot through being in the neighborhood of the deer, but that 
she might by some movement on her part scare it away. She stood 
motionless, her heart now beating with excitement, her eyes fixed on 
this faint shade away in there, in the gray. It did not move: she 
did not move. She kept her hands clinched by her side, so that she 
could not tremble. She dared not even sink into the heather and 
try to hide there. But the next moment she had almost screamed; 
for there was a hurried rushing noise behind her, and as she (in 
spite of herself) wheeled round to face this new^ danger, a troop of 
phantoms went fl3nng by— awful things they appeared to be until, 
just as they passed her, she recognized them to be humble and 
familiar sheep. Moreover, when she saw that other animal out there 
disappear along with them — the whole of them looming large and 
mysterious in this cloud-world — she made sure that that had been a 
sheep also; and she bn-athed more freely. Must not these animals 
have been disturbed by Ik r faiher? Ought she not to make back in 
the direction from which they had come? To go any further for- 
ward she scarcely dared; the roar of water seemed perilously near. 

As she stood, bewildered, uncertain, and full of a nameless dread, 
she saw before her a strange thing— a thing that added amazement 
to her terror— a belt of white, like a waterfall, that seemed to con- 
nect earth and sky. It was at an unknown distance, but it appeared 
to be perfectly vertical ; and she knew that no such stupendous 


TOLANDE. 


141 

waterfall had she either seen before or heard of. That, then, that 
white water was the cause of the roaring noise. And then she be- 
thought her of a saying of Archie Leslie, that tales were told of 
people having gone into this wilderness and never having been heard 
of again; but that there was one sure way of escape for any one who 
got astray— to follow any one of the streams. That he had said, 
must sooner or later lead you down to Alll-nam-ba. But when she 
thought of going away over to that while torrent, and seeking to 
follow its course down through chasm after chasm, she shuddered. 
For one who knew the country intimately — for a man who could 
jump from bowlder to bowlder, and swing himself from bush to 
bush— it might be possible; for her it was impossible. Nor was 
there the slightest use in her trying to go back the way she came. 
She had lost all sense of direction; there was nothing to give her a 
clew; she was absolutely helpless. 

But fortunately she had the good sense to stand still and to con- 
sider her position with such calmness as she could muster; and that 
took time; and during this time, insensibly to herself, the clouds 
around were growing thinner. Then she noticed that the upper 
part of that awe-inspiring torrent had receded very considerably — 
that the white line was no longer vertical, but seemed lo stretch back 
into the distance. Then the moorland visible around her began to 
grow more extended. Here and there faint visions of hills appeared. 
And then a flood of joyful recognition broke over her. That awful 
torrent was nothing but the familiar Allt-cam-bau,* its brawling 
white stream not vertical at all. but merely winding down from the 
far height of the hills. She had come too far, certainly; but now 
she knew that the gullies she was in search of w'ere just behind her; 
and that her father’s hiding-place was not more than three hundred 
yards distant. The cloud that had encompassed her was now trail- 
ing along the face of the hill opposite her; the gloomy landscape 
was clear in all its features. With a light heart she tripped along, 
over heather, across hags, through sopping moss, until behind a lit- 
tle barricade which Nature had formed at the summit of a preci- 
pice overlooking certain ravines — a little box, as it were, that looked 
as if it had been dug out for the very purpose of deerslaying — she 
found her father quietly standing, and cautiously peering over the 
ledge. 

When he heard her stealthy approach, he quickly turned; then he 
motioned her to stoop down and come to him. This she did very 
cautiously^ and breathlessly, and presently she was standing beside 
him, on a spot which enabled her to look" down into the gullies be- 
neath. These certainly formed a most admirable deer-trap, if ever 
there -was one. The place consisted of a series of little hills or 
lumps, probably not more than a hundred and fifty feet in height, 
with sheer smooth slopes, here and there lightly wooded, but mostly 
covered with heather. The gu'lies between those lumps, again, 
came to a point in a ravine just underneath where Yohinde was 
standing; so that, whichever way the deer came, they were almost 
certain to make up the steep face just opposite this station, and so 


* The White Winding Water. 


142 


YOLAJTDE. 


give the rifleman an excellent chance. Yolande took out her house- 
keeper’s note-book, and wrote on the fly-leaf: 

“ Rave you seen anything V 

He shook his head; and motioned to her to put the book away. It 
was not a time for trifling. If there were a slag in the unseen woods 
beyond it might make its sudden appearance in this silent little 
ravine at any moment, and might make for the top by some quite 
unexpected track. He kept his eyes on the watch all along the 
gullies; but his head was motionless. Yolande, too, was eager and 
anxious — but only for awhile. As time passed, she grew listless. 
This solitude seemed always to have been a solitude. There was no 
sign of life in it. Doubtless the young lad had been deceived. And 
then she grew to thinking of the strange sight she saw in the mist 
when the waters of Allt-cam-b^n seemed to be one foaming, white, 
vertical torrent. ^ 

Then a shock came to her eyes: a living thing suddenly appeared 
in that empty solitude; and at once slie clinched her hands. She 
knew what was expected of her. She remained rigid as a stone? she 
would not even raise her head to see if her father saw. She kept 
her eyes on this startling feature in the landscape; she held her 
breath; she was mainly conscious of a dim fear that this animal that 
was coming over that hillock at such a speed was not a deer at all, 
but a fox. It was of a light reddish-brown color. Then it had not 
come up any of the gullies, as she had been told to expect; it had 
come right over the top of the little hill, with a long, sinuous stride; 
and now it was descending again into the ravine. But here she saw 
it was a deer. Once out of the long heather, and coming nearer, 
too, it was clear that this was a deer. But surely small? Wheie 
were the great horns? Or was it a hind? She knew rather than 
saw that her father twice aimed his rifle at this animal, whatever it 
was, as it sped across an open space at the bottom of the ravine. 
Of course all this happened in a few seconds; and she had just be- 
gun to think that the animal had horns, and was a roebuck, when the 
lithe, red, sinuous, silent object di8ap[)eared altogether behind a 
ridge. Still she did not move. She did not express disappointment. 
She would not turn her head. 

Then she knew that her father had quickly passed her and jumped 
on to a clump of heather whence he could get a better view. She 
followed. The next thing she saw, clear against the sky, and not 
more than a hundred and twenty yards off, was the head of a deer, 
the horns thrown back, the nostrils high in the air. same in- 

stant her father fired; and that strange object (whiclTvery much 
frightened her) disappeared. She saw her lather pause for a second 
to put a fresh cartridge in his rifle; and then away he hurried to the 
place where the deer had passed; and so she thought she might now 
safely follow. She found her father searching all about; but more 
particularly studying the peat-hags. 

“I do believe I hit him.” he said (and there was considerable 
vexation in his tone). ” Look about, Yolande. He must have 
crossed the peat somewhere. If he is wounded, he may not have 
gone far. It was only a roebuck— still— such a chance! Confound 
it, I believe I’ve missed him clean!” 

He was evidently grievously mortified; and she was sorry; for 


roLAjirDE. 


143 


she knew he would worry about it afterward; smaller trifles than 
that made him fidget. But all their searching was in vain. The 
peat-hags here were narrow; a frightened deer would clear them. 

“If he is wounded, papa, Duncan and the dogs will go after 
him. ” 

“ Oh, no,” said he, moodily. “ I believe I've missed him clean. 
If he had been hit, be couldn’t have got away so fast. Of course, it 
was only a buck — still ” 

“ But, papa, it was a most difficult shot! 1 never saw any creat- 
ure go at such a pace; and you only saw him for a moment! ’ 

“ Tes, and for that moment he looked as big as a cow, against the 
sky. Nobody bat an idiot could have missed the thing!” 

” Oh, you need not try to make me believe you are a bad shot,” 
said she, proudly, “ No. Every one knows belter than that. I 
know what Mr. Leslie tells me. And 1 suppose the very best shot 
in the world misses sometimes?” 

“ Well, there is no use waiting here,” said he. “ Of course there 
was no slag. The stag that idiot of a boy saw w’as this roebuck. 
If there was a stag the noise of the shot miisi have frightened him 
off. Why the mischief I did not fire when he was crossing the gully 
I don’t understand! — 1 had my rifle up twice ” 

“ Papa,” said she, suddenly, “ what is that?” 

She was looking away down into the ravine beneath them — at a 
dusky red object that was lying in a patch of green breckan. He 
followed the direction of her eyes. 

“ Why, surely — yes, it is, Yolande — that is the buck — he must 
have fallen backward and rolled right down to the bottom ” 

“ And you said you were such a bad shot, papa!” 

“ Oh, that is no such prize,” he said (but he spoke a good deal 
more cheerfully); “ what 1 wonder is whether the poor beast is dead 
— I suppose he must be ” 

“There they come — there they come — look!” she said; and she 
was far more excited and delighted than he was. “ There is the red 
gillie at the lop, and Duncan coming along by the hollow— and 
there is Archie ” 

She took out her handkerchief, and waved it in the air. 

“ Don’t Yolande,” said he. “ They’ll think we’ve got a stag!” 

“ We’ve got all the stag there was to get!” said she, proudly. 
“And you said you were not a good shot— to shoot a roebuck 
running at^^h a pace!” 

“You are' the most thoroughgoing flatterer, Yolande!” he said, 
laughing (but he was very much pleased all the same). “ Whj, he 
wasn’t going at all just at the crest — he stopped to sniff the air ” 

“ But you could only have seen him for the fiftieth part of a sec- 
ond; isn’t that the same as running?” 

At this moment a voice was heard from below, where a little 
group of figures had collected round the buck. It was the Master 
of Lynn who was looking up to them. 

“ A very fine head, sir!” he called, 

“There, didn’t I tell you?” she said, proudly— though she had 
never told him anything of the kind. And then in the excitement 
of the momeoit she forgot she had never revealed to her father that 


144 


YOLANDE. 


little an'angement about the whisky that the Master had suggested to 
lier. 

“ Duncan,” she called down to them. 

” Yes, miss?” 

” When you go back home, you will let the beaters have a glass 
of whisky each.” 

” Very well, miss,” he called back; and then he proceeded with 
the slinging of the buck round the shoulders of the red-headed gillie. 

” Archie!” she called again. 

Ves?” 

” If you are back at the lodge first, wait for us. We shall bo 
there in time for lunch.” 

” All right.” 

She was very proud and pleased as they trudged away home 
again, over the wild moorland. For her part she could see no dif- 
ference between a roe-deer and a red deer, except that the former (as 
she declared) was a great deal pleasanter to eat, as she hoped she 
would be able to show them. And was it not a far more difficult 
thing to hit a deer the size of a roebuck than to hit a stag as tail as 
a horse? 

” Flatterer — flatterer 1” he said; but he was mightily well pleased 
all the same; and indeed to see Yolande gay and cheerful like this 
was of itself quite enough for him; so that for the time he forgot all 
his anxieties and fears. 


CHAPTER XXllI. 

A CONFIDANT. 

One evening John Shortlands and Jack Melville were together 
standing at the door of the lodge, looking down the glen at the very 
singular spectacle there presented. The day had been dull and 
overclouded, and seemed about to sink into an equally gloomy even- 
ing, when suddenly at sunset, the western heavens broke into a 
flame of red; and all at once the stream flowing down llirough the 
long valley became one sheet of vivid pink fire, only broken here 
and there by the big blocks of granite in its channel, which remained 
of a pale and ghostly gray. It was a very curious effect; for it was 
the bowlders (getting their color from the overclouded zenith) that 
seemed faint and shadowy and phantasmal; while the water was 
solid, shining, fire-red, and bewildering to the eyes. » 

The big, burly M P., however, did not seem wholiy*occupied by 
this transfiguration of the heavens. He looked vexed, perl ui bed, 
impatient. 

“Mr. Melville,” he said, abruptly, in his broad Northumbrian 
intonation, ” will you walk down the glen for a bit?” 

“ Yes; but we should fetch Miss Winterbourne to show her the 
skies on fire.” 

“No; it’s about her 1 want to speak to you. Come along.” 

“ About her?” he repeated, with the large clear gray eyes showing 
some astonishment. 

“ Or rather,” said his companion, when they had got as far as the 
bridge, “ about her father. Winterbourne is an old friend of mine. 


YOLAKDE. 


145 

and I won’t just call him an ass; but the way he is goin^ on at 
present, shilly-sballying, frightened to say this, frightened to say that, 
is enough to worry a far stronger man than he is into his grave. 
Well, if he won’t speak I will. Dang it, I hate mystery! My motto 
is — out with it! And he would never have got into this precious 
mess if he had taken my advice all through.” 

Melville was surprised, but he did not interrupt. John Short- 
lands seemed a trifle angry. 

” The immediate trouble with him is this: Ought he, or ought he 
not, to confide certain matters to you as a friend of young Leslie? 
Well, I am going to take that into my own hand, I am going to tell 
you the whole story — and a miserable business it is.” 

” Do you think that is wise?” the younger man said, calmly. ” If 
there is anything disagreeable, shouldn’t the knowledge or it be kept 
to as few people as possible? I would rather have my illusions left. 
The Winterbournes have been kind to me since they came here; and 
it has been delightful to me to look at these two — the spectacle of 
father and daughter ” 

” Oh, but I have nothing to say against either of them — God for- 
bid! — except that Winterbourne has been a confounded ass, as it 
seems to me; or perhaps I should say as it used to seem to me. 
Well, now, 1 suppose you know that your friend Leslie and Yolande 
are engaged?” 

“ I have understood as much.” 

” But did he not tell ye?” said Shortlands, with a stare. 

Well, yes.” the other said, in rather a cold way. ” But we did 
not have much talk about it. Archie Leslie is a very fine fellow; 
but he and 1 don’t always agree in our ways of looking at things.” 

” Then, at all events, in order to disagree you must know what 
his way of looking at things is; and that is just the point I’m com- 
ing to.” said Shortlands, in his blunt, dogmatic, kind of way. 

Just this, that Yolande Winterbourne has been brought up all her 
life to believe that her mother died when she was a child; whereas 
the mother is not dead, but very much alive — worse luck; and the 
poiqt is whether he ough't to be told; and whether he is a sensible 
sort of chap, who would make no fuss about it, and who would see 
that it could not matter much to him; and, above all. whether he 
would consent to keep this knowledge back from Yolande, who 
would only be shocked and horrified by it. Do ye understand? I 
think 1 have put it plain — that is, from Winterbourne’s point of 
view ” 

“ But, surely,” exclaimed Melville, with wide-open eyes, “ surely 
the best thing— surely the natural thing would be to tell the girl 
herself, first of all !” 

‘‘Man alive, Winterbourne would rather cut his throat! Don’t 
you see that his affection for the girl is quite extraordinary? it is the 
sole passion of his life; a needle-scratch on Yolande’s finger is like a 
knife to his heart. I assure you the misery be has endured in keep- 
ing this .secret is beyond anything I can tell you; and I do believe 
he would rather go through the whole thing again, just that Yo- 
lande’s mind should be free, happy, careless. Mind you, it was not 
done through any advice of mine. No; nor was it Winterbourne 
either who began it; it was his sister. The child was given to her 


146 


YOLANDE. 


charge, when she was about two or three years old, 1 fancy. Then 
they were living in Lincolnshire; afterward they went to France; 
and the aunt died there. It was she who brought Yolande up to 
believe her mother dead; and then Winterbourne put off and put off 
telling her— although twenty tunes I remonstrated with him— until 
he found it quite impossible. He couldn’t do it. Sometimes when 
I look at her now, I scarcely wonder. She seems such a radiant kind 
of a creature that I doubt whether I could bring myself to tell her 
that story— no, 1 could not — dang it, 1 could not! And even when 
I was having rows with W interoourne, and telling him what an ass 
he was, and telling him that the torture he was going through was 
quite unnecessary, why, man, I thought there was something fine 
in it too; and again and again I have watched him when he would 
sit and look at Yolande and listen to all her nonsense, and have seen 
his face just filled with pleasure to see her so happy and careless, 
and then 1 thouglit he had his moments of recompense also. When 
he goes about with her he forgets all that worry— thank goodness 
for that: and certainly she is high-spirited enough for anything; you 
womd liiink she had never known a care or a trouble in all her ex- 
istence; and 1 suppose that’s about the truth,” 

John Shortlands had grown quite eloquent about Yolande -al- 
though, indeed, he was not much of an orator in the House; and his 
companion listened in silence— in a profound reverie, in fact. At 
last he said, slowly: 

‘‘ I suppose there is no necessity that I should know why the girl 
has been kept in ignorance of her mother’s existence?” 

” Oh, I will tell you the story— miserable as it is. Well, it is a 
sad story, too; for you cannot imagine a pleasanter creature than 
that was when Winterbourne married her. He was older than she 
was; but not much; he looks a good deal older now than he really 
is— those years have told on him. It was neuralgia that began it; 
she suffered horribly. Then some idiot advised her to drink port 
wine — I suppose the very worst thing she could have tried, for if it 
is bad for gout, it must be bad for rheumatism and neuralgia, and 
such things; at least 1 should think so. However, it soothed her at 
first, I suppose; and no doubt she took refuge in it whenever a bad 
attack came on. But, mind you, it was not that that jdayed the 
mischief with her. She herself became aware that she was being 
tempted to take too much; for quite suddenly she w'ent to her hus 
band, who had suspected nothing of the kind, told him frankly that 
the habit was growing on her, and declared her resolution to break 
the thing off at once. She did that. I firmly believe she did keep 
her resolution to the letter. But then the poor wretch had worse and 
worse agony to bear; and then it was that somebody or other— it 
wasn’t Winterbourne, and he knew nothing about it — recommended 
her to try some of those patent medicines they make up from opium 
or morphia. I dare say it was harmless at, first, Ko doubt she 
began with small doses. But it seems that those drugs are twenty 
times worse than brandy or whisky in destroying the power of the 
will; and so I suppose the poor creature went on and on, increasin .2 
the doses and destroying her brain at the same time, until in the 
end she was simply a hopeless drunkard. It seems miraculous how 
women can go on destroying themselves with those infernal drugs 


yolakdt:. 


147 

without being found out. I don’t know whether Winterbourne 
would ever have found it out; for he is an indulgent sort of chap, 
and he was very fond of her; but one night there was a scene at din- 
ner. Then he discovered the whole thing. The child was sent 
away, for fear of further scenes; and this so terrified the mother 
that she made the most solemn promises never to touch the poison 
again. But by this time—here is the mischief of those infernal 
things — her power of self-control had gone. Man alive, I 
can’t tell ye what Winterbourne had to go through. His 
patience with her was superhuman, and always the promise held 
out to her was that Yolande was to be restored to her; and 
sometimes she succeeded so well that every one was hopeful, 
and she seemed to have quite recovered. Then again there 
would be another relapse; and a wild struggle to conceal It 
from the friends of the family; and all the rest of it. What a life he 
has led all those years — trying to get her to live in some safe retreat 
or other; and then suddenly finding that she had broken out again, 
and gone to some people. Romneys or Rom fords, the name is, who 
have a most pernicious influence over her, and can do anything with 
her when she is in that semi-maudlin state. Of course they use her 
to extort money from Winterbourne; and she has drugged half her 
wits away; and it is easy for them to persuade her that she has been 
ill treated about Yolande. Then she will go down to the House, or 
hunt him out at his lodgings —oh, I assure you I can’t tell you what 
has been going on all these years. There is only one fortunate thing 
— that the Romfords are not aware of the terror in which he lives of 
Yolande getting to know the truth, or else they would put the screw 
on a good deal more forcibly, 1 reckon. As for her, poor woman, 
she has no idea of asking for money for herself — in fact, she has 
plenty. It is not a question of money with Winterbourne. His 
dread is that she might stumble on them accidentally, and Yolande 
have to be told. That is why he has consented to her remaining all 
these years in France, though his only delight is in her society. That 
is why he won’t let her live in London; but would rather put him- 
self to any inconvenience by her living: elsewhere. That is why he 
looks forward with very fair composure to a separation: Yolande 
living in peace and quiet in this neighborhood here; and he left in 
London to lake his chance of a stone being thrown through his win- 
dow at any hour of the day or night!” 

” But that terrorism ig perfectly frightful ” 

” How are you to avoid it?” said Shorllands, coolly. “ There is 
the one way, of course. There is the heroic remedy. Tell Yolande 
the whole story; and then, the next time the stone is thrown, sum- 
mon the police, give the woman in charge, bind her over in recogni- 
zances, and have all your names in the next day’s paper. Some men 
could do that. Winterbourne couldn’t; he hasn’t the nerve.” 

The answer to that was a strange one. It was a remark, or rather 
an exclamation, that Melville seemed to make almost to himself. 

” My God, not one of them appears to see what ought to be done!” 

But the remark was overheard. 

” What would you do, then?” 

“I?” said Melville— and John Shortlands did not observe that 
the refined, intellectual face of his companion grew a shade paler as 


148 


YOLAIIDE. 


he spoke: “1? I would go straight to the girl herself, and I would 
say: ‘ That is the condition in which your mother is: go and save 
her.’” 

Then let me tell you this, Mr. Melville,” said Shortlands, quite 
as warmly, ” rather than bring such shame and horror and suffering 
on his daughter, George Winterbourne would cut off his lingers 
one by one. Why, man, you don’t understand what that girl is to 
him — his' very life! Besides, everything has been tried. You don’t 
suppose the mother would have been allowed to sink to that slate 
without every human effort being made to save her; and always 
Yolande herself held out to her as the future reward. Now w’e must 
be getting back, 1 think. But 1 wish you would think over what I 
have told you; and let Winterbourne have your opinion whether all 
this should be declared to your friend Leslie. Winterbourne’s first 
idea was that, if Yolande were married and settled in the country— 
especially in such a remote neighborhood as this— there would be 
no need to tell even her husband about it. It could not concern 
them. But now he is worrying himself to death about other possi - 
bilities. Supposing something disagreeable were to happen in Lon‘ 
don, and the family name get into the paper, then Yolande’s hus- 
band might turn round and ask why it had been concealed from 
him. That might be unpleasant, you know. If he were not consid- 
erate, he might put the blame on her. The fact is. Winterbourne 
has had his nervous system so pulled to pieces by all this fear and 
secrecy and anxiety that he exaggerates things tremendously and 
keeps speculating on dangers never likely to occur. Why, he can’t 
shoot half as well as he used to; he is always imagining something is 
going to happen; and he does not take half his chances just for 
fear of missing and being mortified after. He has not had a pleasant 
time of it these many years” 

They turned now, and leisurely made their way back to the 
lodge. The red sunset still flared up the glen ; but now it was be- 
hind them; and it was a soft warm color that they saw spreading 
over the heather slopes of the hills, and the wooded corries, and the 
little plateau between the convergent streams. 

” May I ask your own opinion, Mr. Shortlands?” said Melville, 
after a time, ” as to whether this thing should be kept back from 
Leslie?” 

” Well, I should say that would depend pretty much on his char- 
acter,” was the answer; ‘‘and as to that I know very little. My 
own inclination would be for having a frank disclosure all round; 
but still I see what Winterbourne has to say for himself; and I can- 
not imagine how the existence of this poor woman could concern 
either your friend Leslie or his wife. Probably they would never 
hear a word of her. She can’t live long. She must have destroj'’ed 
her constitution completely— poor wretch, one can’t help pitying 
her; and at the same time you know it would bo a great relief if she 
were dead, both to herself and her relatives. Of course, if Mr. Les- 
lie were a finical sort of person— lam talking in absolute confidence, 
you know, and in ignorance as well — he might make some objec- 
tion; but if he were a man wiih a good sound base of character, he 
would say, ' Well, what does that matter to me?’ and he would have 
some consideration for what Winterbourne has gone through in 


YOLANDE. 


149 


order to keep this trouble coucealed from the girl, and would him- 
self be as willing to conceal it from her.” 

” Don’t you think,” said Melville, after a minute’s pause, ” that 
the mere fact that he might make some objection is a reason why he 
should be informed at once?” 


” Is he an ass?” said John Shortlauds, bluntly. ” Is he a worry- 
ing sort of creature?” 

‘‘ Oh, not at all. He is remarkably sensible — very sensible. He 
will take a perfectly calm view of the situation; you may depend on 
that. 


” Other things being equal, I am for his being told — most distinct- 
ly. If he has common sense, there need be no trouble. On the 
other hand, you know, if you should think we are making a fuss 
where none is necessary, I have a notion that Winterbourne would 
be satisfied by your judgment, as an intimate friend of Leslie’s.” 

“ But that is putting rather a serious responsibility on me. Sup- 
pose it is decided to say nothing about the matter, then I should be 
in the awkward position of knowing something affecting Leslie’s 
domestic affairs of which he would be ignorant.” 

” Undoubtedly. I quite see that. But if you are afraid of accept- 
ing the responsibility, there’s an easy way out of it. I will go and 
tell him myself; and have it over. I have already broken awaj’’ 
from Winterbourne’s shilly-shallying by speaking to you; he would 
never have done it; and he is worrying himself into his grave. He 
is a timid and sensitive fellow; he now thinks he should have told 
the Master, as he calls him, when he first proposed for Yolande; and 
perhaps it might have been better to do so; but I can see how he 
was probably well inclined to the match for various reasons, and 
anxious not to put an imaginary stumbling-block in the way. But 
now, if 5mu were to go to him and say, ‘ Well, 1 have heard the 
whole story. It can’t concern either Yolande or her future hus 
band. Uorget the whole thing; and don’t worry any more about 
it,’ I do beHeve he would recover his peace of mind, for he has con 
fidence in your judgment.” 

” It would be rather a serious thing.” 

” I know it.” 

” I must take time to turn the matter over.” 

” Oh, certainly. ” 

They had now reached the bridge, and, happening to look up, 
they saw that Yolande had come to the door of the lodge, and was 
standing there, and waving her handkerchief as a sign to them to 
make haste. And what a pretty picture she made as. she stood there 
— the warm light from the west aglow upon the tall, English-look- 
ing figure clad in a light hied costume, and giving color to the fair, 
freckled face, and the ruddy-gold aureole of her hair. Melville’s 
eyes lighted up with pleasure at the very sight of her; it was but 
natural — she was like a vision. 


” Ah,” said she, shaking her finger at them as they went up the 
path, ” you are wicked men. Seven minutes late already, and if the 
two-pounder th<xt Mr. Melville brought for me has fallen all to pieces 
you must have yourselves to blame — that is true.” _ 

“I wish, Miss Winterbourne,” said Jack MelvUle, “that some 


Y0LAI5DE. 


150 

noble creature would give me a day’s salmon tishing. Then 1 could 
bring you something b^etter than loch trout.” 

“ Oh, no,” she answered, imperiously, ” 1 will not have anything 
said against the loch trout. No; 1 am sure there is nothing ever so 
good as what you get from your own place— nothing. Fnpa says 
that never, never did he have such cutlets as those from the roe 
deer, that he shot last week.” 

“I can tell you, Miss Yolande.” said John Shorllands, ‘‘that 
others beside your father fully appreciated those cutlets. The 
whole thing depends on whether you have got a smart young house- 
keeper; and 1 have it in my head now that 1 am going to spend the 
rest of my days at Allt-nam-ba; and I will engage you— on your 
own terms — name them — you shall have the money down —and then 
I will have Duncan compose a march for me — why should it be a\- 
WRy a Melville's Welcome Home?” 

” But you are also to have the Barren Rocks of Aden tonight,” 
said she, brightly. ‘‘ I told Duncan it was your favorite. Now, 
come along— come along; oh dear me! it is ten minutes late!” 

Jack Melville was rather silent that night at dinner. And always 
— when he could make perfectly certain that her eyes were cast 
down— or turned in the direction of John Shortlands or of her father 
— he was studying Yolande’s face; and sometimes he would recall 
the phrase that Mrs. Bell had used on the first occasion she had seen 
this young lady, or rather immediately after parting with her — 
” She’s a braw lass, that; 1 fear she will make some man’s heart 
sore ” — and then again he kept wondering and speculating as to 
what possible strength of will and womanly character there might 
lie behind those fair, soft, girlish features. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A PEACEMAKER. 

Pretty Mrs. Graham was standing in her room at Inverstroy, 
ready to go out; her husband was in the adjacent dressing-room, en- 
gaged in the operation of shaving. 

” You need not be afraid, Jim,” said the young matron. ‘‘ Every- 
thing has been arranged. Everything will go quite right till I come 
back. And Archie is to meet me at Fort Augustus, so that the 
ponies won’t have the long pull up Glendoe.” 

” Wliy can’t he manage his own afiairs‘/” the stout warrior grum- 
bled. 

*• Aunt Colquhoun isn’t easy to get on with,” she said. ” And I 
am beginning to feel anxious. What would you say to his getting 
spiteful, and running awav with SJiena Van?” 

“Stuff!” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. If I chose, I could show you something 1 
cut out of the Inverness Courier about three years ago. Well, I will 
show it to you.” 

She went to a drawer in her wardrobe, and hunted about for a 
time until she found the newspaper cutting, which she brought back 


YOLANDE. 151 

and put before him oa the dressing-table. This was what he tool| 
up and read 

FOR SHKNA’S NKW-YKAR’S-DAY MORNINO. 

Her eyes are dark and soft and blue, 

She's ligfht-stepped as the roe; 

0 Shena, Shena. my heart is true 
To you where’er you go ! 

1 wish that I were by the rills 
Above the Allt-cain-ban ; 

And w'andering with me o'er the hills, 

My own dear Shena V&n. 

Far other sights and scenes I view : 

The year goes out in snow : 

O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you w^here’er you go ! 

“ Well," said he, contemptuously throwing down again the piece 
of paper, " you don’t suppose Archie wrote that rubbish? That 
isn’t his line." 

‘‘ It’s a line that most lads take at a certain age," said Mrs. Gra- 
ham, shrewdly. 

" More likely some moon-struck plowboy!" her husband inter- 
jected; for, indeed, he did not seem to think much of these verses, 
which she regarded with some fondness. 

‘‘ I am afraid," said she, looking at the lines, " that the plowboys 
in this part of the world don’t know quite as much English as all 
that comes to. And how many people do you think now, Jim, have 
ever heard of the Allt-cam-bau? And then Shena, how many peo- 
ple have ever heard of Janet Stewart’s nickname? There is another 
thing. Those verses appeared when Archie was at Edinburgh; and 
of course he knew very well that, although he was not allowed to 
write to her. tlie Inverness Gonrier would make its way into the 
manse. 1 think they are very pretty. 

“ O Shena, Shena. my heart is true 

Tp you where’er you go I” 

That is the worst of marrying an old man. They never write poetry 
about you." 

" You call that poetry?" he said. 

" Well, good-b}', Jim. I will tell Mackenzie when he is to meet 
me at Fort Augustus." 

"Bring back Yolande Winterbourne with you," said Colonel 
Graham, who had now about finished his toilet. 

" How can I without asking her father? And then there 
wouldn’t be room.” 

" 1 don’t want her father. I want her. There is no fun in having 
a whole houseful of married women.” 

“ 1 quite agree with you. And who wanted them? Certainly 
not 1. Tnere is only one thing more absurd than having nothing 
but married women in the house, and that is having nothing but 
married men. But you have had a warning this year, Jim. Every- 
body acknowledges that there never was such bad shooting. I hope 
another year you will get one or two younger men who know what 
shooting is, and who can climb. Well, good-by, Jim." And pres- 
ently pretty Mrs. Graham was seated in a light little wagonette of 


152 


YOLAITDE. 


polished oak, the reins in her hand, and a pair of stoir little ponies 
trotting away down through the wooded and winding deeps of GleU' 
stroy. 

It was a long drive to Fort Augustus; and although from time to 
time a refrain went echoing through her head, 

“ O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go !” 


and apparently connecting itself somehow with the pattering of the 
horses’ feet on the road, still her brain was far from being idle. 
This expedition was entirely of her own proper choice and motion. 
In truth she had been alarmed by the verv fact that the Master of 
Lynn had ceased to wish for her interference. He had refused to 
urge his case further. If the people ^t Lynn Towers were blind to 
their own interests they might remain so. He was not going to 
argue and stir up domestic dissension. He would not allow Yo- 
lande’s name to be drawn into any such brawl; and certainly he 
woul l not suffer any discussion of herself or her merits. All this 
!Mrs. Graham gathered vaguely from one or two letters; and as she 
considered the situation as being obviously dangerous, she had at 
freat inconvenience to herself, left her house full of guests, and was 
,iow about to see what could be done at Lynn Towers. 

When she reached Fort Augustus, Archie Leslie was waiting for 
her there at the hotel; and she found him in the same mood. He 
did not wish to have anything said about the matter. He professed 
to be indifferent. He assumed that his sister had come on an ordi- 
nary filial visit; and he had luncheon ready for her. He said she 
was looking prettier than ever; and was anxious to know whether 
they had done well with the shooting at Inverstroy. 

“ Now look here. Archie,” said she, when the waiter had finally 
left the room. ” Let us understand each other. You know what I 
have come about — at some trouble to myself. There is no use in 
your making the thing more difficult than needs be. And you know 
perfectly well that matters cannot remain as they are.” 

” I know perfectly well that matters cannot remain as they are,” 
he repeated, with some touch of irony, ” for this excellent reason, 
that in the course of time the Winterbournes will be going south, 
and that as Mr, Winterbourne has never been within the doors of 
Lynn Towers, and isn’t likely to be, he will draw his own conclu- 
sions. Probably he has done so already. I haven’t seen much of 
him since his friend Shortlands came. Very likely he already 
understands why our family have taken no notice of them; and 1 
know he is too proud a man to allow his daughter to be mixed up 
in any domestic squabble. They will go south. That will be— - 
good-by,” 

” But, my dear Master,” his sister protested, ” if you w^ould only 
show a little conciliation ” 

‘ What!” he suid, indignantly. ” Do you think I am going to 
beg for an invitation for Mr. Winterbourne? Do you expect me to 
go and ask that Yolande should be received at Lynn Towers? I 
think not! I don’t quite see mv way to that yet!” 


quite see my 'way 

‘‘You needn’t be angry ’’ 

‘‘But it is so absurd,” he exclaimed. 


What have Winter- 


YOLANDE. 


153 

bourne’s politics to do with Yolaude? Supposing he wanted to 
blow up the House of Lords with dynamite, what has that got to do 
with her? It is Burke’s Peerage that is at the bottom of all this 
nonsen'C. If every blessed copy of that book were burned out of 
the world, they wouldn’t have another word to say. It is the fear 
of seeing ‘ daughter of Mr Winterbourne, M.P. for Slagpool,’ that 
is setting them crazy. That comes of living out of the world— that 
comes of being toadied by gillies and town councilors. But I am 
not going to trouble about it,’' said he, with a sudden aim of indif- 
ference. “lam not going to make a fuss. They can go their wav; 
I can go mine.’’ 

“ Yes, and the Winterbournes will go theirs,’’ said his sister, 
sharply. 

“ Very well.’’ 

“ But it is not very welt — ii^ is very ill. Come now, Archie, be 
reasonable. You know the trouble I had before I married Jim; it 
was got over by a little patience and discretion.’’ 

“ Oh, if you think I am going to cringe and crawl about for their 
consent, y u are quite mistaken. I would not put Yolande Winter- 
bourne into such a position. Why,’’ said he, with some sense of 
injury in his tone, “ I like the way they talk— as if they were 
asked to sacrifice something! If there is any sacrifice in the case 
it seems to me that I am making it, not they. I am doing what 1 
think best for Lynn, that has always been starved for want of money. 
Very well; if they don’t like it they can leave it alone. lam no^ 
going to beg for any favor in the matter.’’ 

“ It might be as well not to talk of any sacrifice,’’ said his sister, 
quietly, and yet with some significance. “ I don’t think there will 
be much sacrifice. Well, now, I’m ready, Archie: what have you 
brought— the dog-cart?’’ 

“ Yes.’’ 

Shortly thereafter they set out for Lynn ; and they did not resume 
this conversation; for as they had to climb the steep road leading 
into Glendoe the Master got down and walked, leaving the reins to 
his sister. They passed through the deep woods, and up and out on 
to tlie open heights. They skirted the solitary little lake that lies in a 
mountain cup up there. And then, in due time, they came in sight 
of the inland country— a broad and variegated plain, with here and 
there a farm house or a village. 

They came in sight of something else, too — the figure of a young 
woman who was coining along the road. Mrs. Graliam’s e3^es were 
fixed on that soliiary person for some time before she exclaimed: 

“ Archie, do you see who that is?’’ 

“ Of course I do,’’ said he, not with the best grace. 

“ It is she, isn’t it?’’ she said, eagerly. 

“ I suppose you can see that for yourself,’’ was the answer. 

“ Perhaps it isn’t the first time to-day that you have met her?’’ 
said she, looking up with quick scrutiny. 

“ If you wanf to now, I have not set eyes on her since last Christ- 
mas. iSlie has been living in Inverness.’’ 

He pulled up. This young lady whom they now stopped to speak 
to was a good-looking girl of about twenty, with light brown hair 
and very dark blue eyes. There w^as some firmness and shrewdness 


154 


TOLANDE 


of character in the face, despite the shyness that was also very visi 
hie there. For the rest, she was neatly dressed—in something of a 
town style. 

She merely nodded to the Master, who took off his hat; but. as she 
was on Mrs."^ Graham’s side of the dog-cart, she shook hands with 
that lady; and her bright, fresh-colored, upturned face had some 
thing of diffidence oi self consciousness in it. 

“ Oh, how do you do, Miss Stewart? It is such a long time since 
I have seen you,” said Mrs. Graham. 

‘‘ Yuu do not come often to Lynn now, Mrs. Graham,” said Miss 
Stewart, with just a touch of a very pretty accent, “ and I havo been 
living in Inverness.” 

” Oh, indeed. And how are the people at the manse?” 

They chatted in the ordinary fashion for a few minutes; and then 
the Master of Lynn drove on again — in silence. Mrs. Graham venL 
ured to repeat—apparently to" herself, though he must have over- 
heard — 

“ And wandering with me o’er the hills 
My own dear Shena Van”— • 

but if he did overhear, he took no notice; and certainly he betrayed 
neither confusion nor annoyance. Perhaps the verses were not his, 
after all? The minister’s daughter was the belle of those parts; she 
had had many admirers; and Vae Interness Conner was the natural 
medium for the expression of their woes, ytill, Mrs. Graham asked 
herself how many people in the world knew of the existence of Allt- 
cam-bSn, far away in the solitudes over Allt-nam-ba. 

Mrs. Graham, as it turned out, had a terrible time with her father. 
This short, thickset man with the voluminous brown and gray 
beard, shaggy eyebrows, and bald head surmounted by a black re.l- 
vet skull-cap, was simply furious; and so far from being affected in 
any degree by his daughter’s blandishments, he seemed inclined to 
direct his wrath upon her . as the chief aider and abettor of her 
brother’s high treason. Nor was his lordship’s language marked by 
much gentleness or reticence. 

“The idea,” he exclaimed, “that Dochfour, and Lochiel, and 
Culloden, and the rest of them, might have to rub shoulders with a 
low, scoundrelly Radical! The mere chance of such a thing hap- 
pening is monstrous!” 

“ I beg to remind you, papa,” said Mrs. Graham, with her face 
grown a little pale, ” that my.husbaud is not in the habit of asvsociat- 
ing with low scoundrels of any kind. And I would rather not hear 
such things said about the father of my particular friend.” 

Then she saw that that I’ne would not do. 

“Papa,” she pleaded, “a little civility costs nothing. Why 
should you not call? You must have known it was this Mr. Win- 
terbourne who had taken the shooting when we telegraphed you 
from Malta.” 

“ I must have known? I did know! What has that to do with 
it? 1 do not let my friendship with my shootings. What my tenant 
may be is nothing to me, so long as he can pay; and he is welcome 
to everything he can find on the shooting; but it does not follow 
that he is entitled to sit down at my table or that I should sit dowp 
at his.” 


YOLANDE. 


15,5 

“ But you were very kind to Yolande Winterbourne when she 
came up at first, and you knew whose daughter she was,” pretty 
Mrs. Graham pleaded again. 

” 1 did not know that that young jackass pn)posed to make her 
one of the familj’^— it is too great an honor altogether!” 

” You know, papa, it is such a pity to make trouble when it is not 
likely to help. Archie can marry whom he pleases ” 

‘‘Let him, and welcome!” said this fierce old gentleman. “He 
can marry whom he pleases; but he cannot compel me to associate 
with his wife’s father.” 

She went away somewhat crestfallen, and sought out the Master, 
whom she found in one of the green houses. 

“ Well?” said he, with a smile — for he had anticipated the result. 

“ His lordship does seem opinionated about it, ’’she had to confess. 
“ A.nd 1 think I could talk him over, if only Aunt Colquhoun were 
absent. 1 suppose she will be back from Foyers by dinner lime.” 

“ 1 wish she were sewn in a sack, and at the bottom of Loch 
Ness,” said he. 

“Archie, for shame! You see,” she added, thoughtfully, “1 
must get back to Fort Augustus by four to-morrow afternoon," And 
I haven’t come all this way without being resolved to see Yolande 
before I go. That leaves me little time. But still — have you asked 
*Mr. Melville to speak to papa?” 

“ No. Jack Melville and 1 nearly quarreled over it; so I dropped 
the subject. He doesn’t understand matters, don’t you know, Polly; 
he doesn’t understand what the improvement of a poor estate costs. 
He has forgotten bis Horace— non Iwmini datis — that means 
that human beings aren’t born with enough mone}". He made quite 
a fuss when I showed him that there were prudential reasons for 
the match; as if there were any use in blinding one’s eyes to obvious 
facts. Well, I don’t care. 1 have done my best. My intentions 
toward Lynn were sincere and honorable; now they can make a hash 
of the whole thing if they like.” 

“ It is folly speaking like that,” his sister said, sharply. “ Surely 
you haye too much spirit to yield to a little opposition of this 
kind ” 

“ A little opposition!” he said, with a laugh. “ It’s about as 
bulky as Borluin Hill;; and I for one am not going to ram my head 
against it. 1 prefer a quiet life.” 

" But you are bound in honor to Yolande Winterbourne not to 
let the engagement cease!” she cried. “ Why, to think of such a 
thing! You ask a girl to marry you; she consents; and then you 
throw her over because this person or that person objects. Well, 1 
never heard of one of the Leslies acting in that way before! I was 
only a girl; but I show^ed them what stuff I was made of when they 
tried to interfere with me!’ 

“ Oh, but that’s different,” he said, coolly. “ Girls are romantic 
creatures. They rather like a shindy. Whereas men prefer a quiet 
life.” 

“ Well, I never heard the like of that ” 

“ Wait a minute. I am going to talk to you plainly, Polly,” said 
he. “ 1 wanted to marry Janet Stewart; and 1 dare say she would 
have had mp if 1 had definitely asked her — r.” 


156 


YOLANDE. 


“ I dare say she would!” 

” Oh, you think she hasn’t as much pride as any one else because 
she is only a minister’s daughter? That is all yoii know about her. 
However, they all made such a row, and you especially, that I con- 
sented to let the affair go. No doubt that was wise. I was young. 
She had no money, and Lynn wanted money. Very well. 1 made 
no objection. But you will observe, my dear Miss Polly, that when 
these stumbling blocks are again and again put into the road, even 
the most patient of animals may begin to get fractious, and might 
even kick over the traces. At present I hope I am not in a raj^e. 
But 1 am older now than I was then; and not in the least bit in- 
clined to be made a fool of.” 

” And do you really mean to say,” said Mrs. Graham, with her 
pretty dark-gray eyes regarding him with astonishment, ” that you 
are deliberately prepared to jilt Yolande Winterbourne merely on 
account of this little difficulty?” 

” It isn’t my doing.” said he. “ Besides, tliey seem bent on pil- 
ing up about three cart-loads of difficulty. Life isn’t long enough 
to begin and shovel that away. And if the}' don’t want to have 
Corrievreak back I dare sa} Sir John will be "quite willing to keep 
it.” 

” I don’t think I will speak to papa again until after dinner,” said 
she, musingly. “Then I will have another try — with Corrievreak.” • 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE EMBASSADOK. 

Now Jack Melville— or Melville of Monag.en, as Mrs. Bell (with 
her own dark purposes always in view) proudly preferred to call 
him, had not only decided that the Master of Lynn should know 
that Yolande’s mother was alive, but he had also undertaken him- 
self to tell him all the facts of the case, to Mr. Winterbourne’s great 
relief. Accordingly, one afternoon he gave the school-children a 
half holiday, and walked over to Lynn. He met the Master at the 
wooden bridge adjoining Lynn Towers; and also the dog-cart con- 
veying Mrs. Graham back to Fort Augustus. 

‘‘ There she goes,” said young Leslie, sardonically, as he regarded 
the disappearing vehicle. She is a well-intentioned party. She 
thinks she can talk people over She thinks that when people are 
in a temper they will listen to common sense. And she hasn’t even 
now learned a lesson. She thinks she would have succeeded with 
more time; but of course she has to get back to Inverstroy. And 
she still believes she would have had her own way if she had had a 
day or two to spare.” 

” What is the matter?” 

‘‘Oh, nothing much,” said the other, carelessly. ‘‘Only his 
lordship in a fury at the idea of my marrying the daughter of a 
Radical. And of course it isn’t the slightest use pointing out that 
Mr. Winterbourne’s Radicalism generally consists in opposing what 
is really a Radical Government. And it isn’t the slightest use 
pointing out that politics don’t run in blood ; and that Yolande has 


YOLA^TDE. 


167 


no more wish to destroy the British Constitution than 1 have. How- 
ever, what is the consequence? They can fight it out amongst them- 
selves.” 

But Melville did not seem inclined to treat the matter in this off- 
hand way. His thoughtful face was more grave than was its wont. 
After a second or two he said: 

‘‘ Look here, Archie, I have got something to say to you; will 
you walk along the strath a b t?” 

” You are going lo try the loch?” said the Master, observing that 
his companion had his fishing-rod under his arm. 

” Yes. for an hour or so, if they aiC rising.” 

” 1 will come and manage the boat for you, then,” said the other, 
good-naturedly. 

” Then we can go on together to Allt-nam-ba. You are dining 
there, I suppose.” 

” Well, no,” said young Leslie, with a trifle of embarrassment. 

” But I was told I should meet you!” 

”1 was asked. Well, you see, the lodge is small; and it isn't 
fair to overcrowd it; and give Yolands so much more housekeeping 
trouble. Then Macpherson may come down from Inverness any 
afternoon, almost, to arrange about the Glendyerg march. We have 
come to a compromise about that; anything is better than a law- 
suit; and the gully just above the watcher’s bothy remains ours— 
which is the chief thing.” 

But Melville was not to be put off; he knew this young man. 

‘‘ What is the reason of your not going up to Alll-nam-ba this 
evening?” 

” Well, 1 will tell you, if you want to know. The real reason is 
that my people have treated* the Winterbournes badly; and 1 am 
ashamed of it; and 1 don’t want to go near the place more than I can 
help. If they imagine we are all very busy at Lynn that may be 
some excuse for neither my father nor my aunt having had the com- 
mon civility to call at the lodge. But I am afraid Mr. Winter- 
bourne suspects the true state of affairs; and of course that puts me 
into rather a difficult position when 1 am at Allt-nam-ba; and when 
you see a dlfllcult position before you the best ihin^you can do is 
not to step into it.” i 

” And do you expect everything to be mafie smooth and comforta- 
ble for you?” said Melville almost angrily. “ Don't you expect to 
have any trouble at all in the world? When you meefthe difficulties 
of life is yotir only notion to turn away and run from them?” 

‘‘Yes; as fast as lean and as far as I can. Look here, Jack, 
different people have different views; it doesn’t follow that you are 
right because you look at things not as I do. Tbu think common 
sense contemptible: it cuts both ways, you see. 1 say distinctly that 
a man who accepts trouble, when he can avoid it, is an ass. I 
know there are lots of women who like woe; who relish it and 
revel in it. There are lots of women who enjoy nothing so much 
as a funeral; the blinds all down; a myflerious gloom in the rooms 
and weepint^ relations fortifying themselves all day long against their 
grief bv drinking glasses of muddy port wine and eating buns. 
Well, I don’t. 1 don’t like woe. 1 believe in what a young Scotch 
fellow said to me one morning on board ship when we were on the 


168 


YOLAKDE. 


way out — I think he was a bagman from Glasgow- -at all events he 
came up to me with an air of profound conviction on his face and 
said: ‘ Man, it’s a seeckening tiling to be seeck!’ Well, that is the 
honest way of looking at it. And although I am arguing not so 
much with you as with Polly, still I may as well say to you as I 
said to her when she wanted me to do this, that, and the other 
thing: ‘ ISo; if those people don’t see it would be to their interest 
and to everybody’s interest that this marriage should take place, they 
are welcome to their opinion. 1 sha’u’t interfere. I don’t mean to 
have any domestic squabble if 1 can help it, 1 prefer a quiet life.’ ” 

By this time they had reached the boat, which they dragged down 
to the water and shoved off, the Master of L 3 mn good-naturedly tak 
ing the oars. Tt was a pleasant, warm afternoon; and it looked a 
likely afternoon for fishing, besides; but it was in a very silent and 
absent fashion that Jack Melville put his rod together and began to 
look over his casts. This speech of the young Master’s was no reve- 
lation to him; he had known all that before. But, coming in just 
at this moment, it seemed to make the task he had undertaken more 
and more difficult and dangerous and, indeed, there flashed across 
his mind once or twice some wild doubts as to the wisdom of his 
decision, although that decision had not been arrived at without long 
and anxious consideration. 

And it was in a very perfunctory way that he began to throw out 
the flies upon the water, insomuch that one or two rises he got he 
missed through carelessness in striking. Tn any case the trout 
were not rising freel 3 % and so at length he said: 

“Archie, would you, mind rowing over to the other side? One of 
T.he shepherds sent me wordlhai the char have come their and Miss 
Winterbourne has never seen one. 1 only want one or two to show 
her what they are like; 1 don’t suppose they will be worth cooking 
just now;’’ 

But you have no bait.’’ 

“ I can manage with the fly 1 think.” 

And so they rowed away across lh§. pretty loch on this placid after- 
noon, the while Melville took off the i^t he had been usins, substitut- 
ing three sea-trout flies of the most brilliant hues. Then when they 
had got to the other side, Melviile made for a part of the shore where 
the banks seemed to go very sheer down; and then proceeded to throw 
the flies over a particular part of the water, allowing them slowlj'- to 
sink. It was an odd sort of fly-fishing, if it could be described as 
fly-fishing at all. For after the cast had been allowed to sink some 
couple of yards or so, the flies were slowly and cautiousl^’^ trailed 
along; then there was a curious sensation as if an eel were swallow- 
ing something at the end of the line -very different from the quick 
snap of a trout— and then, as he carefully wound in the reel, there 
appeared in the water a golden-yellow thing, not fighting for its life 
as a trout would, but slowly, oilily circling this way and that until 
a scoop of the small landing-net brought the lethargic, feebly flop- 
ping, but beautifully golden-and-red-spolted fish into the boat. When 
he had eot the two that he wanted, he had done with that, it was 
not sport. And then he sat down in the stern of the boat, and his 
rod was idle. 


YOLAKDE. 


159 

“ Archie,” said he, ” there is something better in you than you 
profess.” 

” Oh, come,” said the other,” char-fishing isn’t exciting; but it is 
better than a lecture.” 

“This is serious,” said the other, quietly;” “you yourself will 
admit that when 1 tell you.” 

And then, very cautiously at first, and rather in a roundabout 
way, he told him the whole, sad story; begging him not to interrupt 
until he had finished; and trying to invoke the young man’s pity 
and sympathy for what those people had suffered, and trying to put 
their action in a natural light, and trying to make clear their mo- 
tives. Who was to blame — the indiscreet sister who had invented 
the story, or the foolishly affectionate father who could not confess 
the truth? He would not say; he would rather turn to consider 
what they had attempted and succeeded in securing — that the beau- 
tiful child -nature of this girl should grow up untainted with sorrow 
and humiliation and pain. 

The Master of Lynn heard him patiently to the end, without any 
expression of surprise or any other emotion. Then he said: 

“I suppose. Jack, you have been asked to tell me all this; most 
likely you are expected to take an answer. Well, my answef is 
clear. Nothing in the world would induce me to have anything to 
do with such a system, or conspiracy, or whatever it may be called. 
You may think the incurring of all this suffering is fine; 1 think it 
folly. But that is not the point. I am not going to judge them. I 
have to decide for myself; and I tell you frankly that I am not such 
a fool as to bring any skeleton into my cupboard. I don’t want 
my steps dogged; 1 don’t want to have to look at the morning paper 
with fear. If 1 had married and found this out afterward I should 
have said I had been grossly deceived; and now with my eyes open, 
I consider 1 should be behaving very badly toward my family if I 
let them in for the possibility of any scandal or disgrace ” 

“ Why, man, how could there be any such thing!” Melville ex- 
claimed; but he was interrupted. 

“1 let you have your say ; let me have mine. There is no use 
beating about the bush. 1 can have nothing to do with any such 
thing; 1 am not going to run the risk of any public scandal while it 
can be avoided ” 

“ What would you do, then if you were in Winterbourne’s posi- 
tion?” 

“ What would 1 do? What I would not do would be to incur a 
life-long martyrdom all for a piece of sentimental folly!” 

“ But what would you do? I want to know what you would do!” 

“ I would lock the woman up m a lunatic asylum! Certainly, I 
would. Why should such a system of terrorism be permitted ! It 
is perfectly absurd. ” 

“You cannot lock her up in a lunatic asylum unless she is a luna- 
tic ; and the poor creature does not seem to be that — not yet, at 
least ” 

“ I would lock her up in a police cell, then!” 

“ And would that prevent exposure?” 

“ At all events, it would prevent her going down and lying in 
wait for him .in Westminster Palace Yard. But that is not the 


YOLANDE. 


160 

point. It is not what I would do in his place; it is what I am going 
to do in my own. And that is clear enough. I have had enough 
bother about this business; I am not goitg to have any more. 1 am 
not going to have any secrets or mysteries. 1 am not going to sub- 
mit to any terrorism. Before 1 marry Yolande Winterbourne, all 
that affair of that lunatic creature must be arranged; and arranged 
so that every one may know of it, without fear and trembling and 
dissimulation.” 

“The message is definite,” said Melville, absently, as his com- 
panion took up the oars and began to row across to the other side of 
the loch. 

It was characteristic of this man that he should now begin and 
try to look at this declaration from young Leslie’s point of view; 
and endeavor to convince himself of its reasonableness; for he had a 
general wish to approve of people and their ways and opinions, hav- 
ing in the long run found that that was the most comfortable way of 
getting along in the world. And this that the Master had just said 
was. regarded from his own position, distinctly reasonable. There 
could be no doubt that Mr. Winterbourne had had his life perverted 
and tortured mainly through his trying to hide this secret from his 
daughter and it was but natural that a young man should be unwill- 
ing to have his own life clouded over in like manner. Even John 
Bhortlandshad not sought to defend his friend when he told the story 
to Melville. As for himself — that is, Melville, well he could not 
honestly approve of what IVIr. Winterbourne had done — except when 
he heard Yolande laugh. 

They rowed over to the other side in silence; and there got out. 

“ 1 hope I did not use any harsh terms. Jack,” the younger man 
said. “ But the thing must be made clear.” 

“I have been wondering,” said the other, “whether it would 
not have been better if I had held my tongue. 1 don’t see how 
either you or your wife could ever have heard of it.” 

“ I think it would have been most dishonorable of you to have 
known that and to have kept it back from me.” 

“ Oh, you do?” 

“ Most distinctly I do!” 

“There is some consolation imthat. 1 thought I was perhaps 
acting the part of an idle busybody, who generally only succeeds in 
making mischief. And 1 have been wondering what is the state of 
the law. I really don’t know. I don’t know whether a magistrate 
would consider" the consumption of those infernal drugs to bo 
drunkenness; and I don’t even know whether you can compulsorily 
keep in confinement one who is a confirmed drunkard.” 

“ You may very well imagine that I don’t want to have anything 
to do with police courts and police magistrates, or with lunatic 
asylums either, when I get married,” said young Leslie, wh^ they 
had pulled the boat up on the bank. “ But this I am sure ot, that 
you can always get sufficient protection from the law from annoy- 
ances of that sort, if you choose to appeal to it. On the other 
hand, if you don’t, if you try to shelter people from having their 
deserts, if you go in for private and perfectly helpless remedies, 
then you have to stand the consequences. 1 declare that nothing 


^ YOLAiq-DE. 161 

would induce me to endure for even a week the anxiety that seems 
to have haunted Winterbourne for years and years.” 

” But then he is so desperately fond of Yolande, you see,” Jack 
Melville said, with a glance. 

Leslie flushed slightly. 

” I think you are going too far.” 

” Oh, I hope not. I only stated a fact. Come, now,. Archie,” he 
said, in his usual friendly way. ” call your common sense to you, 
that you are so proud of. You know I feel myself rather responsi- 
ble. I don’t want to think 1 have made any mischief ” 

” You have made no mischief. 1 say you would have acted most 
dishonorably if you had kept this back!” 

‘‘Well, now, take a rational view of the situation. No doubt you 
are vexed and annoyed by the opposition at home. That is natural. 
No one litres his relatives to object when he know« that he has the 
right and the power to choose for himself. But don’t transfer your 
annoyance over that matter to this, which is quite different. Con- 
sider yourself married and living at Allt-nam-ba, or at Lynn; how 
can the existence of this poor creature affect you in an}^ way? And, 
moreover, the poor woman cannot live long ” 

‘‘ She might live long enough to break some more windows, and 
get everybody’s name into the paper,” said he. ” You don’t sup- 
pose we should always be living in the Highlands?” 

‘‘ 1 want you to come along with me now to the lodge; and you 
can say that after all you found you could come to dinner— there 
never were people so charmingly free from ceremony of any kind; 
and after dinner you will tell Mr, Winterbourne that certainly you 
yourself might not have been prepared to do what he has done, dur- 
ing these years, for Yolande’s sake; and perhaps that you could not 
approve of it; but that for the short time likely to elapse you would 
be content also to keep silence; and you might even undertake to 
live in the Highlands until death should remove that poor creature 
and all possible source of annoyance. That would be a friendly, 
natural, human sort of thing to do; and he would be grateful to 
you. You owe him a little. He is giving you his only daughter; 
and you need not be afraid— he will make it easy for you to buy 
back Corrievreak and do all the other things you were speaking of. 
I think you might do that.” 

Midsummer madness!” the other exclaimed, with some show of 
temper, ‘‘I can’t imagine how you could expect such a thing. 
Our family is old enough to be haunted by a ghost, and we haven’t 
started one yet; but when we do start one, it won’t be a police court 
sort of ghost, I can assure yon. It is hard luck enough when one 
of one’s own relatives goes to the bad — I’ve seen that often enough 
in families; but voluntarily to take over some one else’s relative who 
has gone to the bad, without even the common protection of the 
policeman and the magistrate — no, thanks!” 

‘‘ Then that is your message, 1 suppose?” 

“ Most distinctly. I am not going into any conspiracy of secrecy 
and terrorism— certainly not. I told you that I liked a quiet life. I 
am not going to boUher about other people’s family afllairs— assured- 
ly I am not going to submit to any persecution or any possibility of 
persecution, however remote, about them.” 


162 


TOLANDE. 


“ Very well.” 

” Don’t put it harshly. I wish to be reasonable. I say they have 
been unreasonable, and foolish; and I don’t want to involve myself 
in the consequences. When I marry, I surely must have, as every 
human being in the country has, the right to appeal to the law. 1 
cannot have my mouth gagged by their absurd secrets.” 

“ Yery well.” 

“ And I fancy,” the Master of Lynn added, as his eye caught a 
figure that had just come in sight, far away up the strath, ” that 
that is Yolande Winlerbourne herself. You need not say that I had 
seen her before 1 left” — and so he turned and walked away in the 
direction of Lynn Towers. 

And was this indeed Yolande? Well, he would meet her with an 
unclouded face — for she was quick to observe; and all his talk 
would be about the golden char, and the beautiful afternoon, and 
the rubber of whist they sometimes had now after dinner. And yet 
he was thinking. 

“ I wonder if my way would do,” he was saying to himself, as he 
still regarded that advancing figure. ‘‘Perhaps it is Quixotic, as 
Archie would say. Statistics are against me; and statistics are hor- 
ribly sure things, but sometimes they don’t apply to individual 
cases. Perhaps 1 have no business to interfere. No matter; this 
evening at least she shall go home to dinner with a light heart. 
She does not know that I am going to give her my Limima 
borealis. ’ ’ 

The tall figure now advancing to him was undoubtedly that of 
Yolande, and he guessed that she was smiling. She had brought 
out for a run the dogs that had been left in the kennel ; they were 
chasing all about the hillside and the road in front of her. The 
light of the sunset was on her face. 

” Good evening. Miss Winterbourne,” said he, when they met. 

” But I am going to ask you to call me Yolande,” said she, quite 
frankly and simply, as she turned to walk back with him to Allt- 
nam-ba, ” for I have not many friends; and 1 like them all to call 
me Yolande.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A WALK HOME. 

” But was not that Mr. lieslie?” she said. 

” Oh, yes, it was,” he answered, with an assumed air of indiffer- 
ent, “ Yes. It is a pity he cannot dine with you this evening.” 

“ But why did he not come along now, for a minute even, when 
he was so far?” 

She certainly was surprised; and there was nothing for him but 
to adopt the somewhat lame excuses that the Master in the first in- 
stance had offered him. 

” I think he is expecting a lawyer from Inverness,” said he, rather 
quickly slurring over the various statements, ‘ and if he came by the 
afternoon boat he would be due just about now. They have a good 
deal of business on hand just now at Lynn ” 

” Yes, apparently that is true,” she said, with rather a singular 


YOLANDE. 163 

gesture — very slight, but significant. “We have not seen anything 
of them.” 

“ Well, you see,” he continued, in the most careless and cheerful 
way, “ no doubt they know your father is occupied with the shoot- 
ing, and you with your amateur housekeeping — which I am told is 
perfect. Mr. Shortlands says the lodge is beautifully managed.” 

“ Ah, does he?” said she, with a quick flush of genuine pleas- 
ure. “ I am glad to hear that. And it is very simple now — oh, yes, 
for they are all so diligent and punctual. And now I^have more 
and more time for my botany; and I am beginning to understand a 
little more of the arrangement, and it is interesting.” 

“ I consider you have done very well,” said he. “ So well that 
you deserve a reward.” 

“ Ah, a prize?” said she, with a laugh. “ Do you give prizes at 
your school? Well, now— let me see— what shall I choose? A 
box of chocolates!” 

“ Did they allow you to choose your own prizes at Chateau Cold 
Floors? We don’t do that here. No; the reward I have in store 
for you is the only specimen I have got of the LinnoBa borealis — the 
only plant that bears the name of the great master himself, and such 
a beautiful plant, too! I don’t think you are likely to find it about 
here. 1 got mine at Clova, but you can get everything at Clova.” 

“ It is so kind of you,” she said; “ but what am 1 to do with it?” ' 

“ Start a herbarium. You ought to have plenty of time; if not, 
get up an hour earlier. You have a fine chance here of getting the 
Alpine species. I have got some fresh boards and drying-paper 
down from Inverness; and I meant to lend you my hand-press; but 
then I thought I might want it myself for some other purpose; and 
as Mrs. Belfwas glad to have the chance of presenting you with one 
1 said she might; it will be down from Inverness to-morrow.” 

“ But I cannot accept so much kindness ” she was about to 

protest, when he interrupted her. 

“You must,” he said simply. “ When people are inclined to be 
civil and kind to you, you have no right to snub them.” 

Suddenly she stopped short and faced him. There was a kind of 
mischief in her eyes. 

“Will you have the same answer,” she asked, slowly, and with 
her eyes fixed on him,“ when Mrs. Bell presents to you Monaglen?” 

Despite himself a flush canre over the pale, handsome features. 

“That is absurd,” said he quickly. “That is impossible. I 
know the Master jokes about it. If Mrs. Bell has any wild dreams 
of the kind ” 

“ If she has,” Yolande said, gravely, “ if she wishes to be civil 
and kind, you have no right to snub her.” 

“You have caught me, I confess it,” he said, with a good-nat- 
ured laugh, as they resumed their walk along ihe wide strath. 

“ But let us get back to the sphere of practical politics.” 

He then proceeded to give her instructions about the formation of 
a herbarium; and in this desultory conversation she managed very 
plainly to intimate to him that she would not have permitted him to 
take so much trouble had this new pursuit of hers been a mere holi- 
day amusement. No; she hoped to make something more serious 
of it; arid would jt oot bean admirable occupation for her when 


164 


YOLANDE. 


she ‘finally came to live in these wilds, where occupations were not 
abundant? And he (witli his mind distraught by all sorts of anx- 
ieties) had to listen to her placidly talking about her future life there 
as if that were to be all very plain sailing indeed. She knew of no 
trouble; and she was not the one to anticipate trouble. Her chief 
regret at present was that her botanizing (at least so far as the col- 
lection of plants was concerned) would cease in the winter. 

“ But you cannot live up here in the winter!” he exclaimed. 

” Why nol?” 

“ You would be snowed up!” 

‘‘ Could anything be more delightful than that?” she said. “ Oh, 
1 see it all before me— like a Christmas picture. Big red fires in the 
rooms: outside the sunlight on the snow; the air cold and clear; 
and papa going away over the hard, sparkling hills to shoot the 
ptarmigan and the white hares. Don’t you know, then, that papa 
will take Allt nam-ba for all the year round when I come to live 
here? And if Duncan the keeper can lire very well in the bothy, 
why not we in the lodge? Oh, I assure you it would be ravish- 
ing 

No, no, no; you could not attempt such a thing,” he said. 
” Why, the strath might be quite impassable with the snow. You 
might be cut off from the rest of the world for a fortnight or three 
weeks. You would starve.” 

” Perhaps, then, you never hetjrd of tinned meats?” she said, 
with an air of superiority. 

” No, no; the people about here don’t do like that. Of course, in 
the winter, you would naturally go in to Inverness, or go south to 
Edinburgh, perhaps have a house in London ” 

” Oh, no, that is what my papa would never, never permit — any- 
thing but London.” 

“ Well, then, Inverness is a pleasant and cheerful town. And I 
must say this for the Master, that he is not at all likely to prove an 
absentee landlord, when his turn comes. He is quite as diligent as 
his father in looking after the estate; there won’t be any reversal of 
policy when he succeeds, as sometimes happens.” 

“Inverness?” said she, wistfully ; “Yes; perhaps Inverness — per- 
haps here— that is what my papa would prefer; but London — ah, 
no. And sometimes I think he is so sadly mistaken about me — it is 
his great affection, I know— but he thinks if I were in London I 
would hear loo much of the attacks they make on him, and I might 
read the stupidities they put into the newspapers about him. He is 
so afraid of my being annoyed— oh, I know, for himself he does 
not care — it is all me, me— and the trouble he will take to watch 
against small annoyances that might happen to me, it is terrible and 
pitiable only it is kind. Why should I not go to the House of 
Commons? Do they think I care about their stupidities? I know 
they are angry because they have one man among them who will 
not be the slave of any party- - who will not be a— a cipher? is it? — 
in a crowd— an atom in a majority— no, but who wishes to speak 
what he thinks is true.” 

“ Oh, but, Yolande, ’ said he (venturing thus to address her for 
the first time), “ I w^ant you to tell me: do you ever feel annoyed 
and vexed when you see any attack on your father?” 


165 


TOLANDE. 

She hesitated ; she did not like to confess. 

“ It is a natural thing to be annoyed when you see stupidities of 
malice and spite fulness,” she said, at length — with the fair freckled 
face a shade warmer in color than usual. 

“ For I can give you a panacea for all such wounds; or rather an 
absolute shield against them.” 

” Can you — can you?” she said, eagerly. 

” Oh, yes,” he said, in that careless indilTerent way of his. 
” When you see anybody pitching into your father in the House or 
in a newspaper, all you have to do is to recall a certain sonnet of Mil- 
ton’s. You should bear it about with you in your mind; there is 
a fine wholesome tone of contempt in it; and neither persons in pub- 
lic life nor their relatives should have too great a respect for other 
people’s opinion. It is not wholesome. It begets sensitiveness. 
You should always consider that your opponents are— are ” 

” Ames de boue /” said Yolande, fiercely. “ That is what I think 
when I see what they say of my papa.” 

” But I don’t think you would feel so much indignation as that if 
you would carry about this sonnet with you in your memory: — 

I did but prompt the to quit the clogs 
By the known rules of ancient liberty, 

When straight a barbarous noise environs me 
Of owls, and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs ; 

As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs 
Railed at Latona’s twin-born progeny. 

Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee. 

But this is got by casting pearl to hogs. 

That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood. 

And still revolt when Truth would set them free. 

License they mean when they cry Liberty ; 

For who loves that must first be wise and good : 

But from that mark how far they rove we see, 

For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood. 

There is a good, honest, satisfactory, wholesome contempt in it.” 

” Yes, yes; will you write'' it down for me?” said she, quickly 
and gratefully. ‘‘ Will you write it down for me when we get to 
the lodge?” 

“If you like.” 

When they drew near to the lodge, however, tliey found that 
something very unusual was going forward. The whole of the 
women-servants, to begin with, were outside, and gazing intently in 
the direction of a hillKide just above the confluence of the Dun 
Water and the Crooked Water; while the pretty Highland cook 
was asserting something or other in strenuous terms. The moment 
they saw Yolande those young people fled into the house, like so 
many scurrying rabbits; but Sandy, the groom, being over near the 
kennel, did not hear, and remained perched up on the fence, using 
an opera-glass which he had filched from the dining-room mantelpiece. 
Yolande went over to him (as she had to kennel up the dogs in any 
tjse), and said to him, 

“ What is the matter, Sandy?” 

He very nearly dropped with fright, but instantly recovered him- 
self, and said, with great excitement, 

“ I think they are bringing homeastag, madam; lam sure that is it. 
I was seeing the powny taken down to cross the burn; and it was 


YOLAKBE. 


166 

not the panniers that was on him; and there is the chentlemen 
standing by the bridge, looking.” 

There certainly was a small group of figures standing on the further 
side of that distant bridge— a slim, little structure, slung on wires, 
and BO given to oscillation that only one person could cross at a time. 
This performance, indeed, was now carefully going on; but what 
had become of the pony? Presently they saw something appear on 
the top of the bank on this side of the stream. 

” It is a stag, undoubtedly, Yolande,” Jack, Melville said (he^iad 
got hold of the opera-glass), ” and I should say a good one. Now, 
how could that have come about? Never mind, 1 dare say your 
father will be delighted enough; and I should say Duncan will tune 
up his pipes this evening.” 

Yolande looked through the glass, and was very much exited to 
see that small pony coming home with its heavy burden; but the 
gentlemen were now invisible, having passed behind a hillock. 
And so she sped into the house, fearful that the curiosity of the 
women-servants might have let affairs get behindhand, and 
determined that everything should be in readiness for the home- 
coming sportsmem. 

Melville was left outside; and as he regarded, now the gillie lead- 
ing the pony, and now the party of people who were visible coming 
over the hillock, it was not altogether of the dead stag that he was 
thinking. In this matter of the Master of Lynn he had only per- 
formed his thankless duty as messenger, as it were; still, it was not 
pleasant to have to bring back bad news. Sometimes he wished he 
had had nothing whatever to do with the whole complication; then, 
again, he reminded himself that that secret had been confided to 
him by John Shortlands unsolicited; and that he Melville, had sub- 
sequently done what he honestly thought best. And then he turned 
to think about Yolande. Would he grudge anything be could do 
for that beautiful child-nature — to keep it clear and bright and 
peaceful? No, he could not. And tl:fen he thought, with something 
of a sigh, that those who were the lucky ones in this world did not 
seem to place much value on the prizes that lay within their hand’s 
reach. 

The corpulent John Shortlands, as he now came proudly along, 
puffed and blovving and breathless,. clearly showed by his radiant 
face who had shot the; stag; and at once he plunged into an account 
of the affair for the benefit of Jack Melville. He roundly averred 
that no such ” fluke ” was known in English history. They were 
not put after any stag. No stag had any right to be there. Thev 
had passed up that way in the morning, with the dogs. Nor could 
this have been the wounded stag that the shepherds had seen drink- 
ing out of the A!lt-corrie-an-eich, some four days ago. No; this 
must have been some wandering stag that had got startled out of 
some adjacent forest; and had taken refuge in the glen just as the 
shooting party were coming back from the far tops. Duncan had 
proposed to have a try for a few black game when they came down 
to these woods; and so, by great good luck, John Shortlands had 
put a number four cartridge in his left barrel just in case an old 
blackcock should get up wild. Then he was standing at his post 
when suddenly he heanl a pattering ; a thrown animal appeared, with 


TOLANDE. 


167 

head high and horns thrown back; the next instant it passed him, 
not more than fifteen yards off, and he blazed at it— in his nervous- 
ness with the right barrel; and then he saw it stumble, only for a 
second; then on it went again, he after it, down tp the burn, which 
fortunately was rushing red with last night’s rain; in the bed of the 
stream it stumbled again and fell; and aa it strugsrled out and up the 
opposite bank, there being now nothing but the breadth of the burn 
between him and it, he took more deliberate aim, fired, and the stag 
fell back, stone deai its head and horns, indeed, remaining partly in 
the water. 

Then Mr, Winterbourne, when he came along, seemed quite as 
honestly pleased at this unexpected achievement as if the stag had 
fallen to his own gun; while, as for Duncan, the grim satisfaction 
on his face was sufficient testimony. 

“ This is something like a good day’s work,” said he. ” And 1 
was bringing down the stag for Miss Winterbourne to see it, before 
the dark; and now Peter will take back the powny for the panniers. ” 

But Jack Melville took occasion to say to him, aside: 

“Duncan, Miss Winterbourne will look at the head and horns 
when you have had time to take a sponge or a wet cloth to them, 
don’t you understand? — later on in the evening, perhaps.” 

“ Very well, sir. And 1 suppose the gentlemen will be sending 
in the head to Mr. Macleay’s to-morrow? It is not a royal; but it is 
a very good head Whatever.” 

“ How many points — ten?” 

“Yes, sir. It is a very good head whatever.” 

Yolande had so effectively hurried up everything inside the lodge 
that when the gentlemen appeared for dinner, it was they, and not 
the dinner, who were late. And of course she was greatly delighted 
also; and all the story of the capture of the stag had to be described 
over again, to the minutest points. And again there was a fierce dis- 
cussion as to who should have the head and horns, John Shortlands 
being finally compelled to accept the trophy which naturally belonged 
to him. Then a wild skirl outside in the dark. 

“ What is that, now?” said John Shortlands, 

“That,” said Yolande, complacently — for she had got to know 
something of these matters — “ is the Pibroch of Donald Dhu.” 

“ That is the Pibroch of Donald Black, I suppose,” said John 
Shortlands, peevishly. “ What the mischief have I to do with Don- 
ald Black? I want the Pibroch of John Shortlands, What is the 
use of killing a stag if you have to have somebody else’s pibroch 
played? If ever 1 rent a deer forest in the Highlands, 1 will have 
my own pibroch made for me, if I pay twenty pounds for it.” 

Indeed, as it turned out, there was so much joy diffused through 
this household by the slaying of the stag that Jack Melville, com- 
muning with himself, decided that his ill news might keep. He 
would take some other opportunity of telling Shortlands the result 
of his mission. Why destroy this very obvious satisfaction ? It was 
anew experience for him; he had never shot a stag before. The 
cup of his happiness was full to the brim; and nobody grudged it 
him, for he was a sound-hearted sort of man. 

One rather awkward incident arose, however, out of this stag 
episode. In the midst of their dinner-talk, Yolande suddenly said, 


168 - 


YOLAKDE. 


“ Papa, ought 1 to send a haunch of venison to Lynn Towers? 
It seems so strange to have neighbors, and not any compliment one 
way or the other. Should 1 send a haunch of venison to Lord 
Lynn?” 

Her father seemed somewhat disturbed. 

” No, no, Yolande, it would seem absurd to send a haunch of 
venison to a man who has a deer forest of his own.” 

” But it is let.” 

” Yes, I know; but no doubt the tenant will send in a haunch to 
the Towers if there is any occasion ” 

” But I know he does not, for Archie said so. Mr. Melville,” she 
said, shifting the ground of her appeal, ” would it not be a nice 
compliment to pay to a neighbor? Is it not customary?” 

His eyes had been fixed on the table; he did not raise them. 

“ I — 1 don’t think 1 would,” said he, with some little embarrass- 
ment. ” You don’t know what fancies old people might take. And 
you will want the venison for yourselves. Besides, Mr. Shortlands 
shot the stag; you should let him have a haunch to send to his 
friends in the south.” 

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, certainly!” she cried clapping her hands. 

*‘ Why did I not think of it? That will be much better.” 

At another time John Shortlands might have protested; but some- 
thing in Melville’s manner struck him, and he did not contend that 
the haunch of venison should be sent to Lynn Towers. 

After dinner, they went out into the dark, and guided by Iho 
sound of the pipes, made their way to the spacious coach-house,, 
which they found had been clearect out, and in which they found' 
two of the gillies and two of the shepherds— great, huge, red- 
bearded, brawny men — dancing a four-some reel, while lluncau 
was playing as if he meant to send the roof off. The head andi 
horns of the deer were hung up on one of the pillars of the loose^ 
box. The place was ruddily lit up by two lamps, as well as a few- 
candles; there was a small keg of whisky in a dim corner. And 
Yolande thought that the Highland girls might just as W’ell come 
over from the lodge (the English Jane was of no use), and very 
soon the dancing party was made much more picturesque. But 
where was the Master of Lyon, with the torch-light dance he had 
promised them on the occasion of their killing their first stag? 

When Jack Melville was going away that night he was surprised to 
find the dog-cart outside, Sandy in his livery, the lamps lit, and 
warm rugs on the front seat. 

” This is not for me?” he said. 

” It is indeed,” said Yolande. 

” Oh. but 1 must ask you to send it back. It is nothing for me to 
walk to Gress. You have enough work for your horses just now.” 

” The night is dark,” she said, ” and 1 wish you to drive— you 
will have the light of the lamps.” 

” Why should I drive— to Gross!” he said. 

” But I wish ft,” she answered. 

And that was enough. 


YOLANDE. 


169 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DANGER. 

It mi^ht have appeared to any careful observer, who also knew 
all the circumstances of the case, that what was now happening,' or 
about to happen, away up in those remote solitudes was obvious 
enough; but certainly no suspicion of any such possibilities had so 
far entered the minds of the parties chiefly interested. Yolando 
regarded her future as already quite settled. That was over and 
done with. Her French training had taught her to acquiesce in any 
arrangement that seemed most suitable to those who hitherto had 
guided her destiny; and as she had never experienced any affection 
stronger than her love for her father, so she did not perceive the ab- 
sence of any such passion. To English eyes her marriage m’ght 
seem a raariage de complaisance, as Colonel Graham had styled it; in 
her eyes it seemed everything that was natural, and proper, and 
fitting; and she was quite content. It never occurred to her to 
analyze the singular satisfaction she always felt in the society of 
this new friend— the sense of safety, trust, guidance, and reliance 
with which he inspired her. He claimed a sort of schoolmasterish 
authority over her; and she yielded; sometimes, it is true, reassert- 
ing her independence by the use of feminine wiles and coquetries 
which were as natural as the scamperings of a young rabbit or the 
rustling of the leaves of a tree; but more ordinarily submitting to 
his dictation and government with a placid and amused sense of 
security. While, as for him, had he dreamed that he was stealing 
away the affections of his friend’s chosen bride, he would have fled 
from the spot on the instant, with sharne and ignominy haunting 
him. But how could such an idea present itself to him? He looked 
on her as one already set apart. She belonged to the Master of 
Lynn; as his friend’s future wife he hoped she also would be his 
friend. He admired her bright spirits, her cheerfulness and frank- 
ness, but it was this very frankness (added to his own blunt disre- 
gard to conventionalities) that was deceiving them both. Five min- 
utes after she had asked him to call her Yolande, she was talking to 
him of her future home and her married life; and she was as ready 
to take his advice in that direction as in the direction of drying 
plants and setting up an herbarium. And if sometimes she reversed 
their relations, and took to lecturing him on his unwise ways at 
Gress — his carelessness about his meals, and so forth — why, then lie 
humored her, and considered her remonstrance as only an exhibi- 
tion of friendly interest, perhaps with a trifle of gratitude added, 
for he knew very well that he had spent a good deal of time in try- 
ing to be of service to her. 

Then, at this particular moment, everything seemed to conspire 
toward that end which neither of them foreisaw. Yolande found 
the domestic arrangements at Allt nam-ba flow very easily and 
smoothly; so that practically she had the bulk of the day at her 
own disposal; and Gress was a convenient halting-place when she 


It'D yolakde. 

went for a drive, even when she had no particular message or object 
in view. But very frequently she had a distinct object in 
view, which led to her sending on the dog-cart to Foyers, and 
awaiting its return. On the very morning, for example, after Jack 
Melville had dined with them, she got the following letter, which 
had been brought out from Whitebridge late the night before. The 
letter was from Mrs. Bell, and the handwriting was singularly clear 
and precise for a woman over sixty, who had for the most part edu 
cated herself. 

■' “ Gress, Wednesday. 

“ My BEAU Young Lady,— Excuse my forwardness in sending 
you a letter; but 1 thought you would like to hear the good news. 
The lawyers write to me from Edinburgh that young Mr. Fraser is 
now come of age, and that the trustees are now willing to sell the 
Mouaglen estate, if they can get enough for it. This is what I have 
looked forward to for many’s the day; but we must not be too 
eager like; the lawycis are such keen bodies and I have not saved 
up my scraps to feeii i heir pigs. I think I would like to go to Ed- 
inburgh myself, if it was not that they lasses would let everything 
go to rack and ruin, an^ would have no sense to study Mr. Mel- 
ville’s ways; the like of them for glaiket hussies is not in the land. 
But I would greatly wish to see you, dear young lady, if you will 
honor me so far, before I go to Edinburgh; for I cannot speak to 
. Mr. Melville about it; and I do not wish to go among the lawyers 
with only my own head to guide me. 

“ I am, your humble servant, 

“ CimiSTiNA Bell.” 

Yolande laughed when she got this letter, partly with pure joy 
over the great good fortune which .was likely to befall her friend, 
and partly at the humor of the notion that she should be consulted 
about the conveyancing of an estate. However, she lost no time in 
making her preparations for driving down to Gress; and indeed the 
dog-cart had already been ordered, to take some game into Foyers, 
and also the stag’s head destined for Mr. Macleay. Yolande saw 
that everything was right: got a brace of grouse and a hare for Mrs. 
Bell; and then set out to drive away down the strath — on this chang- 
ing, gloomy and windy day that had streaked the troubled surface 
of the locli with long white lines of foam. 

She found Mrs. Bell much excited, but still scarcely daring to talk 
above a whisper; while from time to time she glanced at the labora- 
tory, as if she feared Mr. Melville would come out to surprise them 
in the discussion of this dark secret. 

” He is not in the school-house, then?” Yolande said. 

“Hot the now. Ye see, the young lad Dalrymple that he got from 
Glasgow College is doing very well now, and Mr. Melville is get- 
ting to be more and more his own maister. He canna aye be look- 
ing after they bairns; and if we could get Monaglen for him, who 
would expect him to bother his head aboot a school? He’s done 
enough for the folk about here; he’ll have to do something for him- 
self now— ah. Miss Winterbourne, that will be a prood day for me 
whenT hand him over the papers.” 

She spoke as if it were a conspiracy between these two. 


tOLAKD^. ll-l 

“ But it will be a sair, sair job to get him to take the place,” she 
continued, reflectively, “ for the man has little common sense; but 
he has pride enough to move mountains.” 

” Not common sense?” said Yolande, with her eyes showing her 
wonder. ” What has he, then? 1 think it is always common sense 
with him. When you are talking with him, and not very sure 
what to do, whatever he says is always clear, straight, and right; 
you have no difficulty; he sees just the right way before you. But 
iiow am I to help you, Mrs. Bell?” 

” Well, I dinna ken, exactly; but the idea of an auld woman like 
me going away to Edinburgh among a’ they lawyers is just dread- 
fu’. It’s like Daniel being put into the den of lions.” , 

“ Well, you know, Mrs, Bell,” Yolande said, cheerfully, ” no 
harm was done to him. The lions did not touch a hair of his 
head.” 

“ Ay, 1 ken that,” said Mrs. Bell, grimly; ” but they dinna work 
miracles nowadays,” 

“ Surely you must have your own lawyers?” the girl asked. 

“1 have that.” 

“ You can trust them, then; with them, you are safe enough, 
surely?” • 

“Well, this is the way o’t,” said Mrs. Bell with decision.. “It 
is not in the nature o’ things for a human being to trust a lawyer— 
it’s no possible. But the oeedccssity o’ the case drives ye into their 
hands, and ye can only trust in Providence that they will make the 
other side suffer, and no you. They’re bound to make their money 
out o’ somebody. I’m no saying, ye ken, but that the lawyers that 
have been doing business for ye for a nummer o’ years might no be 
a bit fairer; for it’s their interest to carry ye on, and be freens wi’ 
ye; but dear me, when I think of going away to Edinburgh, a’ by 
mysel’, among that pack o’ wolves, it’s enough "to keep one frae 
sleeping at nights.” 

“ But every one says you are so shrewd, Mrs. Bell!” 

“ Do they?” she responded, with a pleased laugh. “ Just because 
I kenned what they men were after. It needed no much judgment to 
make that out. May be if I had been a young lass, they could ha’ 
persuaded me; but when I was a young lass, with scarcely a bawbee 
in my stocking, there was never a word o’t; and when they did be 
gin to come about, when I was an auld woman, I kenned fine it was 
my bank-book they were after. It didna take much judgment to 
make that out — the idiwuts! Ay, and my lord, too — set him up wi’ 
his eight months in London by himsel’, and me finding him the 
money to pul saut in bis kail. Well, here am I bletherin’ about a 
lot o’ havers like that, as if I was a young lass out at the herdin’, 
when I wanted to tell ye, my dear young leddy, just how everything 
was. Ye see, what I was left was, first of a’, the whole of the place 
in Leicestershire, and a beautifu’ country-side it is, and a braw big 
house, too, though it was not likely 1 was going to live there, in a 
stale not becoming to one like me, and me wanting to be among my 
own people besides. .-Then there was some money in Consols, which 
is as safe as the Bank, as the saying is; and some shares in a mine 
in Cornwall. The shares I was advised to Sell, and I did that, for I 
^m not one that cares for risk; but when 1 began to get posses- 


TOLAKDE. 


in 

pion of my yearly money, and when I found that what I could save 
was mounting up and mounting up in jist an extraordinary way, 1 
put some o’ that into French stock, as I thought I might take a bit 
liberty wi’ what was my own making in a measure. And now, 
though it’s no for me to boast, it’s a braw sum — a braw sum; and 
atweel I’m thinking that a fine rich English estate, even by itsel’, 
should be able to b^uy up a wheen bare hillsides in Inverness-shire, 
even if we have to take the sheep ower at a valuation — ay, and leave 
a pretty penny besides. 1 declare when 1 think o’ what might ha’ 
happened, I feel 1 should go down on my knees and thank the 
Almichty for putting enough sense in my head to see what they 
men were after; or by this time there might not be stick or stone to 
show for it — a’ squandered away in horse-racing or the like — and 
Mr. Melville, the son of my auld master, the best master that ever 
lived, going about from one great man’s house to another, teaching 
the young gentlemen, and him as fit as any o’ them to have a house 
and ha' of his ain ” 

.She stopped suddenly; for both of theni now saw through the 
parlor window Jack Melville himself come out of his laboratory, 
carelessly whistling. Doubtless he did not know that Yolande was 
in the house, else he would have walked thither; and probably he 
had only come out to get a breath of fresh air, for he went to a rock- 
ing-chair close by the garden, and threw himself into it, lying back 
with his hands behind his head. Indeed he looked the very incar- 
nation of indolence — this big boned, massive-shouldered young man, 
who lay there idly scanning the skies. 

“ I am going out to scold him for laziness,” said Yolande. 

‘‘Please, no, my dear young leddy,” Mrs. Bell said, laying her 
hand gently on the girl’s arm. ‘‘ It is now he is working.” 

” Working! Does it look like it? Besides, i am not so afraid of 
him as you are, Mrs. Bell. Oh, yes, let me go.” 

So sire went out and through the little lobby into the garden, 
coming upon him, indeed, quite unawares. 

*‘ Mrs. Bell says 1 must not speak to you,” she said. ‘‘ She says 
you are working, and must not be disturbed. Is it so? And what 
IS the work? Is it traveling at si^ty-eight thousand miles an 
hour?” 

‘‘ Something like that,” said he; and he forgot to rise, while she 
remained standing. Then he glanced round the threatening sky 
again. ” You were brave to venture out on a morning like this.” 

‘‘ Why? What is there?” 

“ Looks like the beginning of a storm,” said he. ‘‘ Here we are 
fairly sheltered, but there are some squalls of wind going across. I 
hope you won’t all be blown down the strath into the loch to-night.” 

” Ah, but I do not believe any longer in weather prophecies,” she 
said, tauntingly. ‘‘No. I do not think anyone has any knowl- 
edge of it — at Allt-nam ba, at all events. It is never five minutes 
the same. One moment you are in the clouds; the next— in sun- 
light! Duncan looks up the hill in the morning, and is very serious; 
before they have got to the little bridge, there is blue sky! It is ali 
chance. Do you think science can tell you anything? You. now, 
when you brought that instrument ”— aiid here she regarded a solar 
machine, the mirrors and brass mountings of which were shming 


YOLANDE. 173 

clear even on this dull day— “ did you expect to get enough sunlight 
at Bress for you to distil water?” 

A twinkle in the clear gray eyes showed that she had caught him. 

” There are mysteries in science that cannot be explained to 
babes, ” said he (and she thought it rather cool that he remained 
sittings or rather lounging, instead of going and fetching a chair for 
her). ” Everything isn’t as easy as snipping out the name of a 
genus and pasting it at the foot of a double sheet of white paper.” 

“ That is good of you to remind me,” she said, without in the 
least being crushed. “ One thing I came for to-day was the Linncua 
harealis.*' ^ ’ 

Then he instantly jumped to his feet. 

“ Certainly,” said he; ” come along into the house. You may as 
well take back the boards, and drying paper, and so forth, with you; 
and I will show you how to use them now. There may be a few 
other things you should have out of my herbarium, just to start you, 
as it were — not rare plants, but plants you are not likely to get up at 
Allt-nam-ba. Are you superstitious? 1 will give you a four-leaved 
clover, if you like.’ 

” Did you find it?” 

“ Yes — in a marshy place in Glencoe.” 

“ But it is the finder to whom it brings luck, as I have read,” 
Yolande said. 

“ Oh, is it so?” he answered, carelessly. “ I am not learned in 
such things. If you like, you can have it; and In the meantime we 
will start you with your Linncea and a few other things. 1 don’t 
suppose the hand-press has arrived yet; but mind, you must not re- 
fuse it.” 

” Oh, no,” said she. gravely repeating the lesson of yesterday. 
” When one wishes to be civil and kind to you, you have no right 
to snub him.” 

The repetition of the phrase seemed to remind him; he suddenly 
stopped short, regarding her with an odd, half -amused look in his 
eyes. 

“ Can you keep a secret?” 

“ 1 hope so.” 

” Well, now,” he said, rather under his voice, “ I am going to 
tell you a secret, which on no account must you tell to Mrs. Bell. 1 
have just heard, on very good authority, that Monaglen is about to 
come into the market, after all.” 

” Oh indeed,” said she, with perfectly innocent eyes. “ Can it 
be possible!” 

“ Don’t mention the thing to Mrs. Bell; for you know her wild 
schemes and visions; and it would only make her unhappy.” 

” Why. then?” 

” Because what she means to do (if she really means to do it) is 
not practicable,” he said, plainly. ” Of course, if she buys Mona- 
glen for herself, good and well. She is welcome to sit in the hall of 
my fathers. I dare say she will do more good in the neighborhood 
than they ever thought of doing, for she is an excellent kind of 
creature. And it is just possible that, seeing me about the place, 
she may have thought of some romantic project; but when once 1 


174 


YOLANDE. 


am clear away from Gress, it will quite naturally and easily fade 
from her mind/’ 

“ But you are not going away!” she said. And that sudden sink- 
ing of the heart ought to have warned her; but, indeed, she had not 
had a wide experience in such matters. 

“ Oh, yes,” said he, good-naturedly. “ How could this mj^eshift 
last? Of course 1 must be off— but not this minute or to-morrow. 
1 have started a lot of things in this neighborhood — with Mrs, Bell’s 
money, mind— and 1 want to see them going smoothly; then I’m 
off.” 

She did not speak. Her eyes w^ere distant; she was scarcely con- 
scious that her heart was so disappointed and heavy. But she was 
vaguely aware that the life she h^d been looking forward to in these 
far solitudes did not seem half so full and rich now. There was 
some loneliness about it — a vacancy that the mind discerned but did 
not know how to fill up. Was it the gloom of the day? She 
thought of Allt-uam-ba in the winter; it had no longer any charm 
for her. There was no mischief in her brain now, no pretended in 
nocence in her eyes. Something had befallen — she scarcely knew 
what. And when she followed him into the house, to get the 
Linncea borealis, that little pathetic droop of the mouth was marked. 
That same afternoon, as she was driving home, and just above the 
'little hill that goes down to the bridge adjacent to Lynn Towers, she 
met the Master, who was coming along on horseback. The drive 
had been a somber one, somehow; for the skies were gloomy and 
threatening. But when she saw him she brightened up, and gave 
him a very pleasant greeting. 

“ You are quite a stranger,” said she, as they both stopped. 

“We have had a good many things to attend to at the Towers,” 
he said — as she thought rather distantly. 

“ 1 hear them talking of having a hare drive some day soon — away 
at a great distance, at the highest parts. T ou will come and help 
them, 1 suppose?” 

“ 1 think 1 must go in to Inverness; and I may have to be there 
for some days.” 

“ You will come and see us before you go, then?” she inquired— 
but rather puzzled by the strangeness, almost stiffness, of his 
manner. 

“ I hope so,” said he. “ I am glad to see you looking so well. 1 
hear they have been having good sport at Allt-nam-ba. Well, 1 
must not detain you. Good-by!” 

“Good by!” — and she drove on, wondering. He had not even 
asked how her father was. But perhaps these business affairs were 
weighing on his mind. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE GALE. 

As night fell the storm that Jack Melville had foreseen began to 
moan along the upper reaches of the hills; and from time to time 
smart torrents of rain came rattling down, until the roar of the con- 
fluent streams out there in the dark sounded ominously enough. All 


TOLANDE. 


175 


through the night, too, the fury of the gale steadily increased; the 
gusts of wind sweeping down the gorge shook the small building 
(although solidly built of stone) to its very foundations; and even the 
tierce howling of the hurricane was as nothing to the thunder of the 
now swollen waters, that seemed to threaten to carry away the whole 
place before them. Sleep was scarcely possible to the inmates of 
this remote little lodge; they knew not what might not happen up 
in this weather-brewing caldron of a place; and at last, after an 
anxious night, and toward the blurred gray of the morning, they must 
have thought their worst fears were about to be realized, for sud- 
denly there was a terrific crash, as if part of the building had given 
way. Almost instantly every bedroom door was opened; clearly no 
one had been asleep. And then, through a white cloud of dust, they 
began to make out what had happened; and although that was 
merely the falling of part of the ceiling of the hall, of course they 
did not know how much more was likely to come down, and Mr. 
Winterbourne called to Yolande, sternl}'- forbidding her to stir. John 
Shortlands was the first to venture out, and through the cloud of 
plaster dust he began to make his examinations, furnished with a 
long broom-handle that he obtained from one of the frightened 
maids. » 

“ It is all right, ” he said. “There are one or two other pieces 
that must come down; then the rest will be safe. Yolande, you 
can go back to bed. What? Well, then, go back and shut your 
door anyway, until I get Duncan and the gillies to shovel this stuff 
away. Don’t come out until I tell you.” 

John Shortlands then went down stairs, got a cap, and opened 
the hall door. The spectacle outside was certainly enough to deter 
any but the bravest. There was no rain; but the raging hurricane 
seemed to fill the atmosphere with a gray mist; while from time to 
time a gust would sweep down into the bed of the stream, tear the 
water there into a white smoke, and then whirl that up the opposite 
hillside until it was dissolved in the general vapor. But these water- 
spouts, he quickly perceived, were only formed down there in the 
opener stretches of the strath, where the gusts could get freely at the 
bed of the stream; up here at Allt-nam-ba there was nothing but the 
violence of the wind that came in successive shocks against the 
lodge, shaking it as if it were in the grip of a vise. 

He ventured out. His first experience was to find his deer-stalk- 
ing cap, which he greatly prized, whirled from off his head, and sent 
flying away in the direction of the Allt cam-btn. But he was not to 
be daunted. He went indoors again and got another; and then 
going out and putting his bullet head and his splendid bulk against 
ihe wind he fairly butted his way acros? to the bothy. 

He found Duncan trying to put up some boards where a window 
had been blown in; and an angry man was he when he learnt from 
Mr. Shortlands what had happened at the lodge. 

“ The Master will give it him?” he said, savagely. 

“Whom?” 

“ The plasterer from Inverness, sir. 1 was telling him it was no 
use mending and mending; but that it was a whole new ceiling that 
was wanted, after such a wild winter as the last winter. The Mas- 
ter will be very angry. The young lady might have been hurt.” 


176 


YOLAKDE. 


“ The young lady might have been hurt!” said John Shortlands, 
ironically. “ Yes, I should think so, if she happened to have been 
passing. But in this part of the country, is it only women who are 
hurt when the ceiling of a house falls on them? The men don’t 
mind?” 

Duncan was quite impervious to irony, however. He went away 
to get Sandy and the rest of them to help him in shoveling off the 
plaster — going out, indeed, into this raging tempest in his shirt- 
sleeves and with a bare head, just as if nothing at all unusual were 
happening. 

Of course, with the inhabitants of the lodge there was no thought 
of stirring out that day. They built up the fires in the little 
dining- and drawing-rooms, and took to books, or the arrangement 
of flies, or the watching at the window' how the gale was still play- 
ing its cantrips— tearing at the scant vegetation of the place, and 
occasionally scooping up one of those vaporous waterspouts from 
the bed of the stream. Then Y'olande managed to do a little bit of 
household adornment— with some audible grumbling. 

” Dear me,” she said standing at the dining room Are, ” did ever 
any one sees two such untidy persons? There is a fine row of orna- 
ments for a mantel-shelf. I wondej^ what madame would say. Let 
us see: first, some cartridges— why are they not in the bag? Second, 
a dog-whistle. Third, some casting-lines. Fourth, a fly-hook — 
well, I will make a little order by putting the casting-lines in the 
book ” 

” Let them alone, Yolande,” her father said, sharply. ” Y^ou will 
only make confusion.” 

She put them in, nevertheless; and continued her enumeration. 

‘‘ Fifth, some rifle cartridges; and if one were to fall in the fire, 
what then? Sixth, the stoppers of a fishing-rod. Now, the care- 
lessness of it! AVhy does not Duncan take your rod to pieces, Mr. 
Shortlands, and put in the stoppers? I know where he keeps it, 
outside the bothy, just over the windows; and think now how it 
must have been shaken last night. Think of the varnish!” 

” 1 believe you’re right, Y'olande,” said he; ” but it saves a heap 
of trouble.” 

” Seventh, little silver-fish in abox— a deceitful little beast all cov- 
ered with hooks. Eighth, a flask, with whisky or some horrid- 
smelling stuff in it: ah, madame, what would you think? Then a 
telescope — well, that is something better— that is something better — 
allons, we will go and look at the storm.” 

Looking out of the window was clearly impracticable, for the 
panes were blurred; but she went to the hall door, opened it, and 
directed the glass down the valley. She was quite alone; the others 
were busy with their books. Then suddenly she called to them: 

“Come, come! There is some one that I can see— oh! imagine 
any one fighting against such a storm! A stranger? Perhaps a 
friend from England V Ah, such a day to arrive! Or perhaps a 
shepherd? — no, there are no dogs with him.” 

Well, the appearance of a human being on any day, let alone such 
a day as this, in this upland strath, was an event; and instantly they 
were all at the door. They could not make him out; much less 
could they guess on what errand any one, stranger or friend, should 


TOLAKDE. 


177 

be willing to venture himself against such a gale. But that figure 
away down there kept making headway against the wind. They 
could see how his form was bent — his head projecting forward. He 
was not a shepherd: as Yolande had observed, he had no dogs with 
him. He was not the Master of Lynn; that figure belonged to a 
bigger man than the Master. 

“ I’ll tell you who it is,” said John Shortlands, curtly. ‘‘It’s 
Jack Melville. Three to one on it.” 

“ Oh, the folly — the folly!” Yolande exclaimed, in quite real dis- 
tress. “ He will be blown over a rock ” 

‘‘,Not a bit of it!” said .John Shortlands, to comfort her. ” The 
people about here don’t think anything of a squall like this. Look 
at Duncan there— marching down to dig some potatoes for the cook. 
A head keeper in the south wouldn’t be as good-natured as that, I 
warrant you. They are much too swell gentlemen there.” 

And it was Jack Melville, after all. He was very much blown 
when he arrived, but he soon recovered breath, and proceeded to say 
that he had been afraid that the gale might catch the boat and do 
some mischief. 

‘‘ And it has,” said he. ” It is blown right over to the other side; 
and apparently jammed between some rocks. So I have come along 
to get Donald and one of the gillies to go with me; and we will have 
it hauled clear up on the land ” 

“ Indeed, no!” Yolande protested, with pleading in her face. 
” Oh, no!— on such a day why should you go out? Come in and 
stay with us! What is a boat, then ” 

“ But,” said he, with a sort of laugh, ” I am afraid 1 am partly 
responsible for it. 1 was the last that used the boat ” 

“ Never mind it,” said she; ” what is it— a boat! No, you must 
not go through the storm again.” 

” Oh, but we are all familiar with these things up here,” said he, 
good-naturedly. “ If you really mean to invite me in, I will come 
— after Donald and I have gone down to the loch.” 

” Will you?” she said, with her bright face full of welcome glad- 
ness. 

' ‘ I must come back with my report, you know,” said he. ” For 
1 am afraid she may have got knocked about; and if there is any 
damage I must make it good ” 

‘‘Nonsense!’ Mr. Winterbourne interrupted. 

‘‘Oh, but I must. It is Lord Lynn’s boat;ihnd there are people 
from whom one is not quick to accept an obligation. But then there 
are other people,” said he, turning to Yolande, ‘‘ from whom you 
can receive any number of favors with great pleasure; and if you 
don’t mind my staying to lunch with you — ifi- 1 may invite myself 
to stay so long ” 

‘‘ Do you think 1 would have allowed you to go away before!” 
she said, with a touch of pride in her tone; she had got to know 
something of Highland ways and customs. 

ISo he and Donald and two others went away down the glen; and 
in about a couple of hours came back with the report that the boat 
was now placed in a secure position; but that it had had two planks 
stove in, and would have to be sent to Inverness for repair— .Tack 
Melville insisting on taking over that responsibility on his own shoui- 


YOLANDE. 


178 

ders, although, as a matter of fact, the Master of Lynn had assisted 
him in dragging the boat upon the last occasion on which it had been 
used. As for Yolande, she did not care for any trumpery boat: was 
it not enough that their friend should have come to keep them com- 
pany on this wild and solitary day? Then there was another thing. 
She had determined to astonish the gentlemen with the novelty of a 
hot luncheon; and here was another who would see what the little 
household could do! Indeed, it was a banquet. Her father drew 
pointed attention to the various things ^^though he was him- 
self far from being a gourmand). A venison pasty John Shortlands 
declared to have been the finest dish he had encountered for many a 
day. He wished to heavens they could make a salad like that at the 
Abercorn Club. 

“ Is, it not nice to see them so grateful?” said she, turning with 
one of her brightest smiles to the stranger guest. “ The poor things; 
No wonder they are pleased. The other day 1 climbed away up the 
hill to surprise them at their lunch— oh, you cannot imagine the 
miserableness of it! Duncan told me where I should find them. 
The day was so dull and cold; the clouds low down; and before I 
was near the top, a rainy drizzle began ” 

” They generally say a drizzling rain in English.” her father said. 

“ But we are not in England. It is a rainy drizzle in the High- 
lands, is it not, Mr. Melville?” 

” It does not matter how you take it,” he answered; but we get 
plenty of it.” 

” Then the cold wet all around; and the heather wet; and I went 
on and on — not a voice — not a sign of any one. Then a dog came 
running to me — that was Bella — and I said to myself, ‘ Aha. I have 
found you now!’ Then we went on; and at last — the spectacle! — 
the poor people all crouched down in a peat-hag, hiding from the 
rain; papa seated on a game-bag that he had put on a stone; Mr. 
Shortlands on another; their coat-collars up; the plates on their 
knees; the knives, forks, cold beef, and bread all wet with the rain 
— oh, such a picture of miserableness has never been seen. Do you 
wonder that they are grateful, then — do you wonder they approve — 
when they have a fire, and a warm room, and dry plates, and dry 
knives and forks?” 

Indeed, they had a very pleasant meal; and the cotfee and cigars 
after it lasted a long time, for of what good was anything but lazi- 
ness so long as the wind howled and roared without? All the time 
however. Jack Melville was wondering how he could have a few 
minutes’ private talk with Mr. Shortlands; and as that seemed to b(} 
becoming less and less probable— for Mr. Winterbourne seemed 
content to have an idle day there in his easy-chair before the fire, 
and Y'olande was seated on the hearthrug at his knees, quite content 
to be idle loo— he had to adopt a somewhat wild pretext. John 
Shortlands was describing the newest variety of hammerless gun ; 
when he spoke of the one he himself had bought just before coming 
north. Melville pretended a great interest. Was it in the bothy? 
Yes. Might they not run over for a couple of minutes? Y^’clande 
protested; but John Shortlands assented; so these two ventured out 
together to fight their way across. 

Instead of going into the central apartment of the bothy, however, 


YOLAKDii. 179 

■where the guns stood on a racK, Melville turned into the next apart- 
ment, which "was untenanted, and "which happened to be warm 
enough, for Duncan had just been preparing porridge for the dogs, 
and a blazing fire still burned under the boiler. 

“ 1 wanted to sa)' a word to you.” 

” I guessed as much. What’s 5 ^our news?” 

” Well, not verj- good,” said Jack Melville, rather gloomily, 
” and 1 don’t like to be the bearer of bad news. I meant; to tell you 
the other evening; and 1 could not do it somehow.” 

” Oh, out with it, man! never fear. I like to hear the worst; and 
then hit it on the head with a hammer, if I can. There would have 
been none of this trouble if 1 had had my way from the beginning— 
however, that’s neither here nor there.” 

I am afraid 1 am the bearer of an ultimatum,” Melville said. 

” Well?” 

It was clear that Melville did not like this office at all. He kept 
walking up and down the earthen floor, though the space was lim 
ited enough; his brows contracted; his eyes bent on the ground. 

” It is awkward for me,” he said, rather impatiently. ” I wish I 
had had nothing to do with it. But you cannot call me an intermed- 
dler: for you yourself put this thing on me; and — and— well, it is 
not my business either to justify or condemn my friend — I can only 
tell you that 1 considered it safest and wisest he should know thio 
true slate of affairs — if 1 have erred in that, well ” 

” I don’t think you have,” said Shortlands. slowly. “ 1 left it 
open to your decision — to your knowledge of this young fellow. 
But I think my decision would, in any case, have been the same.” 

” Very well. 1 think 1 have put the w’^hole matter fairly to him. 
1 told him that he had practically no risk to run of any annoyance; 
and that the cause of all this trouble, poor wretch, would soon be 
out of the way; and then 1 told him what Mr. Winterbourne had 
gone through, for the sake of his daughter. Well, he did not seem 
to see it tnat way. He was quite frank. He said it was a mistaken 
Quixotism that had been at the bottom of it all ” 

“ 1 said so, too; but still ” 

” It is a matter of opinion; it is of no immediate consequence,” 
Melville said. ” But what he seemed quite resolved on was that 
would not consent to become a party to this secrecy. He says 
everything must be met and faced. There must be no concealment : 
in short, Yolande must be told the whole story, so that, in case oi 
any further annoyance, there should be no dread of her discovering 
it,but only the simple remedy of appealing to a constable.” 

John Shot Hands considered for a minute or two. 

” 1 don’t know that he isn’t quite right,” he said, slowly. ” Y( s. 
1 imagine his position is a fair one. At one time 1 said the same. 
I can look at it from his point of view*. I think we must admit, as 
men of the world, that he is perfectly in the right; but,” and here 
he spoke a little more quickly, ” 1 can’t help speaking what is on 
my mind; and 1 say that, if you think of what Winterbourne has 
done for this girl, this ultimatum, if you call it so— from the fellow 
who pretends to be her sweetheart, from the fellow W'ho wants her 
for a wife — well, I call it a d d shabby thing!” 

Melville’s face flushed. 


YOLANDE. 


180 

“lam not his judge,*’ he said, coldly. 

“ I beg your pardon,” John Shortlands said — for his anger was of 
short duration. “I ought to have remembered that this young 
Leslie is your friend, as Winterbourne is mine. 1 beg your pardon 
— 1 can do no more.” 

“ Yes you can,” said Melville, in the same measured way. “ 1 
wish you distinctly to understand that 1 express no opinion whatso- 
ever on Mr. Leslie’s decision; and 1 must ask you to remember that 
I certainly cannot be supposed to approve of it simply because 1 am 
a messenger.” 

“ Quite so— quite so — 1 quite understand,’’ Jolm Shortlands said. 
“ The least said the easiest mended. Let’s see what is to be done. 
1 suppose there was no doubt in his mipd — no hesitation?” 

“ None.” 

“ It would be no good trying to talk him over?” 

“ I, for one, will not attempt it. No. his message w’as distinct. 
1 think you may taKe it as final. Perhaps 1 ought to add that he 
may have been influenced by the fact that his people of the Towers 
seem to have been quarreling with him about this marriage; and he 
has not the best of tempers at limes; and 1 think he feels injured. 
However, that is not part of my message. My message was distinct, 
as 1 say. It was, in fact, an ultimatum.” 

“ Poor Winterbourne!” Jolm Shortland said, absently. “ 1 won- 
der what be will look like when 1 tell him. All his labor and care 
and anxiety gone for nothing. 1 suppose 1 must tell him; there 
must be an explanation; 1 dare say that young fellov wmn'tcome near 
the lodge now until there is an understanding. Winterbourne will 
a(;arcely believe me. Poor devil — all his care and anxiety gone for 
nothing! 1 don’t mind about her so much. She has pluck; she’ll face 
it. But Winterbourne— I wonder what his face will look like to- 
night when 1 tell him?” 

“ Well, 1 have done my best and my worst, I suppose, however it 
turns out,” said Jack Melville, after a second or two. “ And now 1 
will bid you good-by.” 

“ But you are going into the house?’ 

“No.” 

“ No?” said the other, in astonishment. “ You’ll bid them good- 
by, I suppose?” 

“ I cannot!” said Melville, turning himself away in a manner. 
“ Why, to look at that girl— and to think of the man she is going to 
marry having no more regard for her than to ” 

But he suddenly recalled himself; this was certainly not main- 
taining his attitude of impartiality 

“ Yes,” said he, “ 1 suppose I must go in to bid them good-by.” 

They were loath to let l(i\m depart; Mr. Winterbourne, indeed, 
wishing him to remain for dinner and stay the night. But they 
could not prevail on him; and soon he was making his way with 
his long strides down the glen, the gale now assisting instead of im- 
peding his progress. John Shortlands (who was apt to form sudden 
and rather violent prepossessions and prejudices) was looking after 
him, as the tall figure grew more and more distant. 

“ There goes a man,” he was saying to himself; “ and I wish to 
heavens he would kick that hound!” 


TOLANDE. 


181 


t', 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

SURMISES. 

The gale was followed by heavy rain; there was no going out the 
next day. But, indeed, it was not of the shooting those two men 
were thinking. 

“ He might have spared her —he might have spared her!” was Mr. 
Winterbourne s piteous cry, as he sat in his friend’s room, and 
gazed out through the streaming window panes on the dismal land- 
scape beyond. 

And who was to tell her? Who was to bring grief and humiliation 
on that fair young life? Who was to rob her of the beautiful dream 
and vision that her mother had always been to her? Not he, for 
one. He could not do it. 

And then (for he was a nervous, apprehensive man, always ready 
to conjure up distressing impossibilities) might she not misunderstand 
all this that had been done to keep her in ignorance. Might she not 
be angry at having all her life been surrounded by an atmosphere of 
concealment? If sue were to mistake the reason of her father’s 
having stooped to subterfuge and deceit? Was Yolande going to 
despise him, then— she, the only being in the world whose opinions 
he care for? And always his speculations, and fears, and anxious 
conjectures came back to this one point: 

” He might have spared her — he might have spared her.” 

‘‘Now, look here. Winterbourne,” John Shortlauds said, in his 
plain-spoken way. ‘‘ If I were you, before I would say a word of 
this story to Yolande. 1 would make sure that that w'ould be suffi- 
cient for him. I don't know. I am not sure. He says that Yolande 
must be told: but will that suffice? Is that all he w'ants? If 1 were 
in your place, 1 would have a clear understanding. Do you know, 

I can’t help thinking there is something behind all this that hasn’t 
come out. It this young fellow^ is really in earnest about Yolande — 
if he 18 really fond of her — I don’t think he would put this stum- 
bling-block in the way — I don’t think he would exact this sacrifice 
from you— unless there was some other reason. Y'esterday after- 
noon Melville said as little as he could. He didn’t like the job. 
But he hinted something about a disagreement between young Leslie 
and his family over this marriage.” 

‘‘ I guessed as much,” said Mr. Winterbourne. ‘‘Yes, I have sus- 
pected it for some time. Otherwise I suppose his father and aunt 
would have called on Yolande. They knew each other. Yolande 
stayed a night at the Towers when Mrs. Graham first brought her 
here — until the lodge was got ready.” 

‘‘ Of course, if the fellow has any pluck, he won’t let that stand 
in the way. In the meantime, a domestic row isn’t pleasant; and 
I dare say he is impatient and angry. Why should he revenge him- 
self on Yolande, one might ask? But that is not Bie fair way of 
putting it. I can see one explanation. I didn’t see it yesterday: and 
the fact was I got pretty wild when I learned how matters stood; and 


182 


YOLANDE. 


ray own impression was that kicking was a sight too good for him. 
1 have been thinking over it since, though; the rain last night kept 
rae awake. And now 1 can understand his saying, ‘ Well, 1 mean to 
marry in spite of them; but 1 will take care, before 1 marry, to 
guard against any risk of their being able to taunt me afterward.’ 
And then, no doubt, he may have had some sort of notion that, 
when there was no more concealment, when every one knew how 
matters stood, some steps might be taKen to prevent the recurrence 
of — of — you know. Well, there is something in that. I don’t see 
that the young fellow is so unreasonable.” 

Mr. Winterbourne was scarcely listening; his eyes looked haggard 
5^nd wretched. 

” When 1 took this shooting,” he said, absently, ” when the place 
was described to me, on the voyage out, I thought to myself that 
surely there Yolande and I would be safe from all anxiety and 
trouble. And then again, up the Nile, day after day I used to think 
of her being married and settled in this remote place, and used to 
say to myself that then, at least, everything would be right. And 
here we are, face to face wdth more trouble than ever!” 

“Nonsense, man, nonsense!’" John Shortlands said, cheerfully. 
“ You exaggerate things. I thought this mountain work would 
have given you a better nerve. Everything will be right — in time. 
Do you expect the young people never to have any trouble at all? 1 
tell you everything will be right— in time. You pull up your cour- 
age; there is nothing so dreadful about it; and the end is certain 
wedding-bells, old slippers, speeches, and a thundering headache 
the next morning, after confectioner’s champagne.” 

The haggard eyes did not respond. 

“ And who is to tell her? The shock will be terrible— it may kill 
her.” 

“Nonsense — nonsense! Whoever is to tell her, it must not be 
you. You would make such a fuss; you w'ould make it far more 
desperate than it is. Why, you might frighten her into declaring 
that she would not marry — that she w^ould not ask her husband to 
run the risk of some public scandal. That w’^ould be a pretty state 
of affairs— and not unlikely on the part of a proud, spirited girl like 
that. No, no; whoever tells her must put the matter in its proper 
light. It is nothing so very desperate. It will turn out all right. 
And you, for one, should be very glad that the Master, as you call 
him, now knows the whole story; for after the marriage, whatever 
happens, he cannot come back on you and say you had deceived 
him.” 

“ After the marriage! And what sort of a happy life is Yolande 
likely to lead when his relatives object to her already?” 

“ There you are off again! More difficulties! Why, man, these 
things must be taken as they come. You don’t know that they ob- 
ject— and I don’t believe they can object to her, thou^ the old gen- 
tleman mayn’t quite like the color of your politics. But supposing 
they do, what’s the odds? They can’t interfere. You will settle 
enough on Yolande to let the young couple live comfortably enough, 
until the old gentleman and his sister arrive at common sense— or 
the churchyard. I don’t see any difficulty about it. If onlv those 
people were to marry whose friends and relatives on both sides ap 


YOLAKt>E. 183 



This was all that was said at the time: and it must be admitted 
that it left Mr. Winterbourne pretty much in the same mood of anx- 
ious perturbation. His careworn face instantly attracted Yolande’s 
notice; and she asked him what was the matter. He answered that 
there was nothing the matter — except the dullness of the day, per- 
haps; and for the moment she was satisfied. But she was not long 
satisfied. She became aware that there was trouble somewhere; 
there was a kind of constraint in the social atmosphere of the house; 
she even found the honest and hearty John Shortlands given to 
moody staring into the fire. So she went to her own room, and sat 
down, and wrote the following note: — 

“ Allt-nam-ba, Friday. 

“My dear Archie, — We are all in a state of dreadful depres- 
sion here, on account of the bad weather, and the gentlemen shut up 
with nothing to do. Please, please, take pity on us, and come along 
to dinner at seven. Last night, in spite of the gale, Duncan played 
the Hills of Lynn outside after dinner; and it seemed a kind of mes- 
sage that you ought to have been here. I believe the gentlemen 
have fixed next Tuesday, if the weather is fine, for the driving of 
the hares on the far-off heights; and I know they expect you to go 
with them; and we have engaged a whole crowd of shepherds and 
others to help in the beating. There is to be a luncheon where the 
JJska-nan-Sltean, as Duncan calls it, but 1 am afraid the spelling is 
not right, comes into the Allt-Orora, and it will not be difficult for 
me to reach there, so that 1 can see how you have been getting on. 
Do you know that Monaglen js for sale? — what a joy it will be if 
Mr. Melville should get it back again, after all — that will indeed be 
Melville's Welcome Hovne! You will make us all very happy if you 
will come along at seven, and spend the evening with us. 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“ Yolande.” 

She sent this out to be taken to Lynn Towers by one of the gillies, 
who was to wait for an answer; and in something more than an 
hour the lad on the sturdy little black pony brought back this note; — 

“ L3'rm Towers, Friday afternoon. 

“ Dear Yolande, — I regret very much that 1 cannot dine wiih 
jmu to-night; and as for Tuesday, I am afraid that will be also im- 
possible, as I go to Inverness to-morrow. I hope they will have a 
good day. 

“ Yours sincerely, A. Leslie.” 

She regarded this answer at first with astonishment; then she felt 
inclined to laugh. 

“ Look at this, then, for a love-letter!” she said, to herself. 

But by and by she began to attach more importance to it. The 
coldness of it seemed studied yet she had done nothing that she 
knew of to offend him. What was amiss? Could he be dissatisfied 
with her conduct in any direction? She had tried to be most kind 
to him, as was her duty; and until quite recently they had been on 
most friendly terms. What had she done? Then she began to 


184 


YOLAKDE. 


form the suspicion that her father and John Shortlands wei’e con- 
■cealing something— she knew not tvhat — from her. Had it anything 
to do with the Master? Had it anything to do with the singular cir- 
cumstance that not even the most formal visiting relationship had 
been established between Lynn Towers and the lodge? Why did her 
father seem disturbed when she proposed to send a hauncli of veni- 
son to the Towers — the most common act of civility? 

It was strange that, with these disquieting surmises going on in 
her brain, she should think of seeking information and counsel, not 
from her father, nor from Mr. Shortlands. nor from the Master of 
Lynn, but from Jack Melville. It was quite spontaneously and 
naturally that she thought she would like to put all her difficulties 
before him; but on reflection she justified herself to herself. He 
was most likely to know, being on friendly terms with everybody. 
If there was nothing to disquiet her — nothing to reproach herself 
with — he was just the person to laugh the whole thing away and 
send her home satisfied. She could trust him. He did not treat her 
quite so much as a child as the others did. Even when he spoke 
bluntly to her, in his schoolmasterisli way, she had a vague and 
humorous suspicion that he was quite aware that their companion- 
ship was much more on a common footing than all that came to; 
and that she submitted because she thought it pleased him. Then 
she had got to believe that he would do much for her. If she asked 
him to tell her honestly what he knew, he would. The others 
might try to hide things from her; they might wish to be considerate 
toward her; they might be afraid of wounding her sensitiveness; 
whereas she knew that if she went to John Melville he would speak 
straight to her, for she had arrived at the still further conclusion 
that he knew he could trust her, as she trusted him. Altogether, it 
was a dangerous situation. 

Next morning had an evil and threatening look about it; but fort- 
unately there was a brisk breeze; and toward noon that had so 
effectually swept the clouds over that the long wide valley was filled 
with bright warm sunshine. Yolande resolved to drive in to Gress. 
There was no game to take to Foyers; but there were two consign- 
ments of household materials from Inverness to be fetched from 
Whitebridge. Besides, she wanted to know what Mrs. Bell had 
done about Monaglen and the lawyers. And besides, she wanted to 
know where Alchemilla arvensis ended and A. alpina began; for she 
had got one or two varieties that seemed to come in between; and 
she had all a beginner’s faith in the strict lines of species. There 
was, in short, an abundance of reasons. 

On arriving at Gress, however, she found that Mr. Melville, hav- 
ing finished his forenoon wmrk in the school, had gone off to his 
electric storehouse away up in the hills; and so she sent on the dog- 
cart to Whitebridge, and was content to wait awhile with Mrs. Bell. 

“ I’ll just send him a message, and he’ll come down presently.” 

Oh, no, please don’t; it is a long way to send any one,” Yo- 
lande protested. 

“ It’s no a long way to send a wee bit flash o’ fire, or whatever it 
is, that sets a bell ringing up there,” said the old dame. ” It’s won- 
derful, his devices. Sometimes 1 think it’s mair than naitural. 
Over there, in the laboratory, he has got a kind o’ ear-trumpet; and 


YOLANDE. 


185 

if you take out the stopper, and listen in quateness, you’ll hear every 
word that’s going on in the school. ” 

“ That is what they call a telephone, I suppose?” 

” The very thing!” said Mrs. Bell, as she left the room to send a 
message to him. 

'When she came hack, she was jubilant. 

” My dear young leddy, 1 am that glad to see ye! I’ve sent the 
letter.” 

What letter?” 

” To the lawyers. Oh, I was a lang, lang time thinking o’t; for 
they lawyers are kittle cattle to deal wi’; and I kenned fine if I was 
too eager they would jalouse what I was after; and then thev 
would be up to their pranks. So I just telled them that 1 did not 
want Monaglen for mysel’ — which is as true’s the gospel— but that 
if they happened to hear what was the lowest price that would be 
taken, they might send me word, in case 1 should come across a cus- 
tomer for them. It doesna do to be too eager about a bargain, espe- 
cially wi’ they lawyers; it’s just inviting them to commit a highway 
robbery on ye.” 

‘‘ If Mr. Melville,” said 'Yolande, quickly, “ were to have Mona- 
glen, he would still remain in this neighborhood, then?” 

” Nae doot aboot that! It’ll be a man’s wark to put the place to 
rights again; for the factor isa puir body, and the young gentleman 
never came here — he has plenty elsewhere, 1 have been told.” 

” Mr. Melville would still be living here?” said Yolande, eagerly. 

” At Monaglen, ay; and it’s no so far away. But it will make a 
difference to me,” the old dame said, with a sigh. ” For 1 have got 
used to his ways about the boose; and it will seem empty, like.” 

” Then you will not go to Monaglen?” 

” ’Deed, no; that would never do. I wouldna like to go as a 
servant, for I have been living too long in idleness; and I couldna 
go back in any other kind of a way, for I ken my place, Na, na; I 
will just bide where 1 am. and I will keep two hundred and twenty 
pounds a year, or thereabouts, for mysel’; and wi’ that I can mak 
ends meet brawly, in spite o’ they spendrif hussies.” 

These romantic projects seemed to have a great fascination for 
this good dame (who had seen far less that was attractive in the 
prospect of being given away in marriage by a famous duke); and 
she and Yolande kept on talking about them with much interest, 
until a step outside on the gravel caused the color to rush to the 
girl’s face. She did not know that, when she rose on his entrance. 
She did not know that she looked embarrassed, because she did not 
feel erabairassed. Always she had a sense of safety in his presence. 
She had not to watch her words, or think of what he was thinking 
of what she was saying. And on this occasion she did not even 
make the pretense of having come about Alchemilla alpina. She 
apologized for having brought him down from his electric works; 
asked^hiin if he would take a turn in the garden for a minute or two, 
as she had something to say to him; and then went out, he follow- 
ing. She did not notice that when she made this last remark his 
face looked rather grave. 

‘‘Mr. Leslie went to Inverness this morning?” she said, wl^ep 
they were out in the garden. 


186 


TOLAiy-DE. 


“ Yes; he looked in as he was passing.’’ ' • ' ' 

, “ Do you know why he went?” 

” Well,” said he, ” I believe they have been having some dispute 
about the marches of the forest; but I am told it is to be all amica- 
bly settled. I fancy Archie is going to have the matter squared up 
in Inverness.” 

She hesitated then. She took up a flower; regarded it for a sec- 
ond; and tnen looked him fair in the face. 

“ Mr. Melville,” said she, ” do you think it strange that I ask you 
this question?— you are Mr. Leslie’s friend: is he offended with 
me?” 

His eyes were looking at hers, too — rather watchfully: he was on 
his guard. 

“ I have not the slightest reason to suppose that he is,” was the 
answer, given with some earnestness, for he was glad to find the 
question so simple. 

” None? I have not done anything that he could complain of — 
to you or any one?” 

” 1 assure you I never heard him breathe a word of the kind. 
Besides,” added he, with a ver}" unusual warmth in the pale cheeks, 
” I wouldn’t listen. No man could be such a coward ” 

” Oh, please don’t think that 1 am angry,” she said, with earnest 
entreaty. ” Please don’t think I have to complain. Oh, no! But 
every one knows what mischief is wrought sometimes by mistake; 
someone being offended and not giving a chance of explanation; 
and— and— I w^as only anxious to be assured that I had done noth- 
ing to vex him. His going away without seeing us seemed so 
strange — yes; and also his not coming of late to the lodge; and — and 
— my papa seems to be troubled about something; so that I became 
anxious; and I knew you would tell me the truth, if no one else 
would. And it is all right, then? There is no reason to be dis- 
turbed, to be anxious?” 

He was disturbed, at all events; and sorely perplexed. He dared 
not meet her eyes; they seemed to read him through and through 
when he ventured to look up. 

” Don’t imagine for a moment that you have anything to reproach 
yourself with— not for a moment,” he said. 

” Has any one, then?” 

” Why, no. But— but— well, 1 will be honest with you, Yolande; 
there has been a little trouble- at the Towers. The old people are 
not easy to please; and— and Archie has too much spirit to allow 
you to be dragged into a controversy, you see; and as they don’t get 
on very well together, 1 suppose he is glad to get off’ for a few days 
to Inverness.” 

“Ah, 1 understand,” she said, slowly. “That is something to 
know. But why did he not tell me? Does he think I am 
afraid of a little trouble like that? Does he think I should be fright- 
ened? Oh, no. When I make a promise, it is not to break it. He 
should have trusted me more than that. A.h, 1 am sorry he has to 
go away on my account. Why did he not speak? ^ It is strange.” 

And then she regarded him with those clear, beautiful, contern- 
plative eyes of hers. 

“ Have you told me everything?” 


TOLAKDE. 


187 


He did not answer. 

“No. There is more. There is more to account for my papa’s 
trouble— for his going away this morning. And why do 1 come to 
you? — because 1 know that what you know you will tell to me. 
You have been my friend since ever we came to this place.” 

He could not withstand her appeal; and yet he dared not reveal a 
secret which was not his own. 

“ Yolande,” said he, and he took her hand to emphasize his 
words, “ there is more; but it is not I who must tell you. What 1 
can tell you, and what I hope you will believe, is that you are in no 
way the cause of anything that ma}^ have happened. You have 
nothing to reproach yourself with. And any little trouble there 
may be will be removed in time, no doubt. When you have done 
your best, what more can you do? ‘ The rest is with the gods.’ ” 

It is just possible that she might have begged him to make a can- 
did confession of all that he knew — for she had a vague fear that 
she herself war, the cause of that anxiety which she saw too visibly 
in her father’s look — but at this moment the dog cart drove up to 
the front gate, and she had to go. She bade him. and also Mrs. 
Bell, good-by almost in silence; she went away thoughtfully. And 
as he watched her disappear along the high-road — the warm wester- 
ing light touching the red gold of her hair — he was thotightful too; 
and his heart yearned towai’d her with a great pity; and there was 
not much that this man would not have done to save her from the 
shadow that was about to fall on her young life. 


CHAPTER XXX. . ; r ^ 

“dare ALL.” 

He could not rest somehow. He went into the laboratory, and 
looked vacantly around; the objects there seemed to have no interest 
for him. Then he went back to the house— into the room where he 
had found her standing; and that had more of a charm for him: the 
atmosphere still seemed to bear the perfume of her presence, the 
music of her voice still seemed to hang in the air, She had left on 
the table— she had forgotten, indeed— a couple of boards inclosing 
two specimens of the Alchemilla. These he turned over, regarding 
with some attention the pretty, quaint French handwriting at the 
foot of the page — “ Alcheniilla alpina. Alpine Lady's mantle. Allt- 
nam-ba, September 188 — ”; but still his mind was absent; he was 
following in imagination the girl herself, going away along the road 
there, alone, to meet the revelation that was to alter her life. 

And was he iroing to stand by, idle? Was he going to limit him- 
self to the part he had been asked to play— that of mere message- 
bearer? Could he not do something? Was he to be dominated by 
the coward fear of being called an intermeddler? He had not pon- 
dered over all this matter (with a far deeper interest than he himself 
imagined) without result. He had his own views, his own remedy; 
he knew what counsel he would give, if he dared intervene. And 
why should he not dare? He thought of the expression of her face 
fls she had said, with averted eyes, “ Good-by!” and then— why, 


188 


YOLANDE. 


then, a sudden impulse seized him that somehow and at once he 
must get to Allt nam ba, and that before slie should meet her father. 

He snatched up his hat and went quickly out and through the lit- 
tle front garden into the road; there he paused. Of course, he could 
not follow her; she must needs see him coming up the wide strath; 
and in that case what excuse could he give? But what if the shoot- 
ing-party had not yet come down from the hill? Might he not inter- 
cept them somewhere? Sometimes when they had been taking the 
far tops in search of a ptarmigan or two, Ihev came home late — to 
be scolded by the young house mistress for keeping dinner back. 
Well, the result of these rapid calculations was that the next minute 
he had set out to climb, with a swiftness that was yet far too slow 
for the eagerness of his wishes, Ihe sleep and rough and rugged hills 
that stretch away up to the neighborhood of Lynn forest. 

First it was over peat- bog and rock; then through a tangled 
undergrowth of young birches; then up through some precipitous 
gullies; until at last he had gained the top and looked abroad over 
the forest — that wide, desolate, silent wilderness. JSIot a creature 
stirred: not even the chirp of a chaffinch broke the oppressive still- 
ness; it seemed a world of death. But he had no time to take note 
of such matters; besides, the solitude of a deer forest was familiar 
to him. He held along by the hilltop, sometimes having to descend 
into sharp little gullies and clamber up again, until, far below him, 
he came in sight of Lynn Towers, and the bridge and the stream, 
and the loch; and onward still he kept his way, until the strath 
came in view, with Allt-nam-ba, and a pale blue smoke rising from 
the chimneys into the still evening air. Probably YoJande had got 
home by that time; perhaps she might be out and walking round 
the place — talking to the dogs in the kennel, and so forth." So he 
kept rather back from the edge of the hilltop, so that he should not 
be descried; and in due time ari-ived at a point overlooking the junc- 
tion of the three glens, down one of which the shooting-people, if 
they had not already reached the lodge, were almost certain to come. 

He looked and waited, however, in vain; and he was coming to 
the conclusion that they must have already passed and gone on to 
the lodge, when he fancied he saw something move behind some 
birch-bushes on the hillside bejmnd the glen. Presently he made 
out what it was— a pony grazing, and gradually coming more and 
more into view. Then he reflected that the pony could only be 
there for one purpose; that probably tlie attendant gillie aur5 the 
panniers were hidden from sight behind those birches; and that, if 
it were so, the shooting-party had not returned, and were bound to 
come back that way. A very few minutes of further waiting proved 
his conjectures to be right; a scattered group of people, with dogs 
m to heel, appearing on the crest of the hill opposite. Then he had 
no further doubt. Down this slope he w^ent at headlong speed; 
crossed the rusnlng burn by springing from bowlder to bowlder; 
scrambled up through the thick brushwood and heather of the op- 
posite banks; and very soon encountered the returning partv, who 
were now watching the panniers being put on the pony 's back. 

Now that he had intercepted Mr. Winterbourne, there was no 
need for hurry. He could take time to recover his breath ; and also 
to bethink himself as to how he should approach this difficult mat- 


YOLANDE. 


189 

ter; and then, again, he did not wish those people to imagine that 
he had come on any important errand. And so the conversation, as 
the pony was being loaded, was all about the day’s sport. They 
had done very well it appeared; the birds had not yet got wild, and 
there was no sign of packing; they had got a couple of teal and a 
golden plover, which was something of a variety; also, they had had 
the satisfaction of seeing a large eagle-^which Duncan declared to 
be a Golden Eagle — at unusually close quarters. 

Then they set out for home; Duncan and the gillies. making away 
for a sort of ford by which they could get the pony across the Dun 
Water; while the three others took a nearer way to the lodge by 
getting down through a gullie tu the Corrie-an-eich, where there was 
a swing-bridge across the burn. When they had got to the bridge, 
Melville stopped them. 

“I am not going on with you to the lodge.” said he. “Mr. 
Winterbourne, 1 have seen your daughter this afternoon. She is 
troubled and anxious; and 1 thought I’d come along and have a 
word with you. 1 hope you will forgive me for thrusting myself in 
where I may not be wanted; but — but — it is not always the right 
thing to ‘ pass by on the other side.’ 1 couldn’t in this case.” 

“lam sure we are most thankful to you for what you have done 
already,” Yolande’s father said, promptly; and then he added, with 
a weary look in his face, “and what is to be done now, 1 don’t 
know. I cannot bring myself to this that Leslie’s demands. It is 
too terrible. I look at the girl— well, it does not bear speaking of.” 

“ Look here. Winterbourne,’*’ John Shortlands said, ‘‘lam going 
to leave you two together. 1 will wait for you at the other side. 
But I would advise you to listen well to anything that Mr. Melville 
has to say; 1 have my own guess.” ‘ 

With that he proceeded to make his way across the narrow and 
swaying bridge, leaving these two alone. 

“ What I want to know, first of all,” Mr. Winterbourne said, with 
a kind of despair in his voice, “ is wdiether you are certain that 
the Master will insist? Why should he? How could it matter to 
him? 1 thought we had done everything when we let him know. 
Why should Yolande know? Why make her miserable to no end! 
Look what has been done to keep this knowledge from her all 
through these years; ami you can see the result in the gayety of her 
heart. Would she have been like that if she had known— if she had 
always been thinking of one who ought to be near her, and perhaps 
blaming herself for holding aloof from her? She would have been 
quite different; she would have been old in sadness by this time; 
whereas, she has never known what a care was. Mr. Melville, jmu 
are his friend; you know him better than any of us; don’t you think 
there is some chance of reasoning with him and inducing him to 
forego this demand? It seems so hard.” 

The suffering that this man was undergoing was terrible. His 
question formed almost a cry of entreaty; and Jack Melville could 
.scarcely bring himself to answer in wliat he well knew to be the 
truth. 

“ I cannot deceive you,” he said, after a second. “ There is no 
doubt that Leslie’s mind is made up on that point. When 1 under* 


190 YOLA.ifOi:* 

took to carry this message, he more than once repeated his clear de- 
cision ” 

“ But why? What end will it serve? How could it matter to 
them — living away from London? How could they be harmed?” 

“Mr. Winterbourne,” said the other, with something of a clear 
emphasis, ” when I reported Leslie’s <iecision to Mr. Shortlands, as I 
was asked to do, I refused to defend it — or to attack it, for that matter 
— and I would rather not do so now. What 1 might think right in the 
same case — what you might think right— does not much matter. 1 
told Mr. Shortlands that perhaps we did not know everything that 
might lead to such a decision; Leslie has not been on good terms 
with his father and aunt; and he thiuks he is being badly used. 
There may be other things; I do not know.” 

” A.nd how do we know that it will suffice?” the other said. 
” How do we know that it will satisfy him and his people? Are we 
to inflict all this pain and sorrow on the girl; and then wait to see 
whether that is enough?” . 

‘‘It is not what I would do,” said Jack Melville, who had not 
come here for nothing. 

“ What would you do, then? Can you suggest anything?” her fa- 
ther said, eagerly. ” Ah, you little know how we should value any 
one who could remove this thing from us!” 

” What 1 would do? Well, 1 will tell you. 1 would go to that 
girl, and I would see how much of the woman is in her; I think you 
will find enough. I would say to her, ‘ There is your mother; that 
is the condition she has sunk into through those accursed drugs. 
Every means has been tried to save her, without avail — every means 
save one. It is for you to go to her — you yourself — alone. Who 
knows what resurrection of will and purpose may not arise within 
lier, when it is her own daughter who stands before her and appeals 
to her— when it is her own daughter who will be by her side during 
the long struggle? That is your duty as a daughter; will you do it?’ 
If I know the girl, you will not have to say more!” 

The wretched man opposite seemed almost to recoil from him in 
his dismay. ‘‘Good God!” he muttered; and there was a sort of 
blank, vague terror in his face. Melville stood silent and calm, 
awaiting an answer. 

‘‘ It is the suggestion of a devil,” said this man, who was quite 
aghast and seemed scarcely to comprehend the whole thing just yet; 
‘‘ or else of an angel^why ” 

‘‘ It is the suggestion neither of a devil nor an angel,” said Meh 
ville, calmly, ‘‘ but of a man who has read a few medical books.” 

The other, with the half-horror-stricken look in the eyes, seemed 
to be thinking hard of all that might happen; and his" two hands 
clasped together over the muzzle of his gun, which was resting on 
the ground, were trembling. 

‘‘Oh, it is impossible— impossible!” he cried, at length. “It is 
inhuman. You have no! thought of it sufficiently. My girl to go 
through have you considered what you are proposing to sub- 

ject her to ‘r*’’ 

“ I have considered,” Jack Melville said (perhaps with a passing 
qualm; for there was a patnetic cry in tins man’s voice). “ And I 


YOLANDE. 191 

have thought of it sufficiently, 1 hope. I would not have dared to 
make the suggestion without the most anxious consideration.” 

” And you would subject Yolande to that!" 

“ No.” said the other, ” I would not. I would not subject her to 
anything; 1 would put the case before her, and I know what her 
own answer would be. I don’t think any one would have to use 
prayers and entreaties. I don’t think it would be necessary to try 
much persuasion. I say this — put the case before her, and I will 
slake my h'ead I can tell what her answer will be— what her decision 
will be — yes, and before you have finished your story I” 

‘‘ And to go alone ” 

” She will not be afraid!” 

He seemed to have a very profound conviction of his knowledge 
of this girl’s nature: and there was a kind of pride in the w^ay he 
spoke. 

” But why alone?” pleaded the father — he seemed to be imagining 
all kinds of things with those haggard eyes. 

” I would not have the mental shock lessened by the presence of 
any one. I would have no possible suspicion of a trap — a bait — a 
temptation. 1 would have it between these two: the daughter’s 
appeal to her mother. I am not afraid of the result.” 

” She could not! My girl to go away by herself — she could not! 
It is too terrible!” 

“ Try her.” 

” She has never traveled alone. Why, even to go to London by 
herself ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, but that has nothing to do with it. That is not wliat I mean 
‘^t all. As for that, her maid would go with her as a mailer of course; 
and Mr. Shortlands might see her as far as London if he is going- 
south shortly, as I hear. She could put up at one or other of the 
hotels that she had already stayed at with you. Then you would 
give her the address; and leave the rest to her” 

” You have been thinking over this,” Mr. Winterbourne said. ” I 
have not. 1 am rather bewildered about it. Shall we ask Short- 
lands?” 

“ If you wish. But first let me explain, Mr. Winterbourne. As 
I understand, several arrangements have been made with this poor 
woman — only unhappily to be broken by her. Well, now, w hy I 
want Yolande to go alone — if you think the experiment should be 
tried at alMis to prevent suspicion in the poor woman’s mind. I 
would have no third person. It should be a matter between the two 
women themselves; and Yolande must insist on seeing her mother 
alone.” 

“ Insist! Yes, and insist with two such wretches as those Bom- 
fords! Why, the man might insult her— he might lay hands on her, 
and force her out of the house.” 

Melville’s pale, dark face grew darker at this; and his eyes had a 
sudden sharp fire in them. 

” She must have a policeman waiting outside,” he said, curtly. 
” And her maid must go inside with her— but not necessarily into the 
room.” 

” And then,” said Mr. Winterbourne— who was apparently pictur- 


192 


YOLAKDE. 


ing all this before his mind; “ supposing she were to get her mother 
away with her— what then?” 

” She would take her back to the hotel. She must have a private 
sitting-room, of course. Then, in two or three days’ time, when she 
had got the necessary traveling things for her mother, she would 
take her down to some quiet seaside place— Eastbourne or Bourne- 
mouth or some such place — and get rooms there. The two women 
would get to know each other that way; Yolande would alwaj’s be 
with her; her constant society would be her mother’s safeguard.” 

“You have thought of everything — yon have thought of every- 
thing,” the father murmured. ” Well, let us see what Shortlancls 
says. It is a terrible risk. I am not hopeful myself. The thing is 
— is it fair to bring all this distress and suffering on the girl on such 
a remote chance?” 

“ You must judge of that,” said Melville. ” You asked me what 
I would do. 1 have told you.” 

Mr. Winterbourne was about to step on to the bridge— across 
which only one could go at a time: but he suddenly turned back 
and said, with some emphasis, to the } ounger man: 

” Do not imagine that, because 1 hesitate, 1 think any the less of 
your thoughtfulness. Not many would have done as much. What- 
ever happens, I know what your intentions were toward us.” He 
took Melville’s hand fora moment, and pressed it. “ And I thank 
you for her sake and for my own. May God bless you!” 

When they got to the other side, they found .John Shortlands seated 
on a bowlder of granite, smoking a cigar. He was not much startled 
by this proposal— for Melville had mentioned something of the kind 
to him, in an interjectional sort of fashion, sometime before; and 
he had given it a brief, but rather unfavorable consideration. Now, 
as they talked the matter over, it appeared that he stood midway 
between these two; having neither the eager enthusiasm of Jack 
Melville nor yet the utter hopelessness of his friend Winterbourne, 

” If you think it is worth trying, try it,” said he, coolly. ” It 
can’t do much harm. If Yolande is to know, she may as well know 
to some end. Other things have been tried, and failed; this might 
not. The shock might bring her to her senses. Anyhow, don’t you 
see, if you once tell Yolande all about it, I rather fancy she will be 
dissatisfied until she has made a trial.” 

‘‘That is what I am certain of,” Melville said, quickly. ‘‘I 
would contentedly leave it to herself Only the girl must have some 
guidance.” 

‘‘ Surely, surely,” said John Shortlands. ‘‘ I consider your plan 
very carefully laid out— if Winterbourne will risk it. The only 
way is to leave Yolande in her present happy ignorance; and tell the 
Master of Lynn, and his father, and liis aunt, and what other rela- 
tions he has, to go to the devil.” 

” Shortlands,” said Mr. Winterbourne, angrily, ” this is a serious 
thing: it is not to be settled in your free and easy way. I suppose 
you wouldn’t mind bringing on Yolande the mortification of being 
jilted? How could you explain toiler? She would be left— without 
a word. And I hear she is beginning to be anxious already. Poor 
child, whichever way ii goes, she will have enough to suffer.” 

‘‘ I shall not mind so much which way it goes,” said .John Short- 


YOLANDE. 193 

lands, bluntly, “ if only somebody would take the Master of Lynn 
by the scruff of the neck, and oblige me by kicking him from Allt- 
nam-ba bridge to Foyers pier.” 

” Come, come,” said Melville (though he was by much the young- 
est of these three), ” the less said in that way the better. What you 
want is to make the best of things; not to stir up ill will. For my 
part, I regard Miss Winterbourne’s engagement to Mr. Leslie as a 
secondary matter — at this present moment; I consider her first duty 
is to her mother; and I am pretty sure jmu will find that will be her 
opinion when you put the facts of the case before her. Yes; I am 
pretty certain of that,” 

‘‘ And who would undertake to tell her?” her father said. “ Who 
could face the suffering, the shame, you would see in her eyes? Who 
would dare to suggest to her that she, so tenderly oared for all 
her life, should go away ai 1 encounter these horrors?” 

There was silence. 

” If it comes to that,” said Melville, slowl3^ ” 1 will do it. If you 
think it right — if it will give you pain to speak to her — let me speak 
to her.” 

“ You?” said her father. ” Why should you undertake what 
cannot be but a dreadful task? Why should you have to bear that?” 

“ Oh,” said he, ” my share in the common trouble would be slight. 
Besides, I have not many triends; and when one has the chance of 
lending a hand, don’t you understand, it is a kind of gratification. 
I know it will not be pleasant — except for one thing. I am look- 
ing forward to her answer; and I know what it will be.” 

” But, really,” her father said, with some hesitation, “is it fair 
we should put this on you? It is a great sacrifice to ask from one 
who has been so recently our friend. You have seen her— you have 
seen how light-hearted she is; and to ask any one to go and take 
away the happy carelessness of her life from her ” 

“ Yes, it will make a change,” said Melville, thoughtfullv. “I 
know that. She will be no longer a girl. She will be a woman.” 

“ At all events. Winterbourne,” John Shorthands broke in, “ what 
I said before 1 say now — you are the last man to undertake such a job. 
You’d frighten the girl out of her senses. It’s bad enough as it is; 
and it’ll have to bo told her by degrees. I would have a try myself; 
but I might say something about the cause of her having to be told; 
and that would only make mischief. If I said anything about your 
friend Leslie, Mr. Melville, I ask you to forget it. No use making 
rows. And I say, if Winterbourne decides on taking your way out 
of this troublesome business, and if you don’t mind doing what 
you’ve offered to do, you could not find a better time than next Tues- 
day, if that will be convenient for you, for we shall be all away at 
the far tops that day, and I dare say it will take you some time to 
break the news gently.” 

“ I am quite at your service, either on Tuesday or any other day, 
whenever you let me know what you have decided.” 

lie would not go on to the house with them, despite all their solici- 
tations; on the other hand, he begged them not to say to Yolande that 
they had seen him. So they went on their way down to the little 
lodge and its dependencies; while he went back and over the hills. 

“ He’s a d d fine fellow that, and no mistake,” said the plain' 


194 


YOLANDE. 


spoken John Shortlands. “ There is a sort of broad human nature 
about him. And 1 should think, Winterbourne, you were very 
much obliged to him.” 

” Obliged?” said Yolande’s father. ” It is scarcely the word.” 


CHAPTER XXXL 

CONTRITION. 

Mrs. Graham, attended by her maid, and dressed in one of the 
most striking of her costumes, was slowly pacing up and down the 
loud echoing railway station at Inverness. This was wdiat her 
brother used spitefully to call her platform parade; but on this occa- 
sion. at all events, she had no concern about what effect, if any, her 
undoubtedly distinguished appearance might produce. She was ob- 
viously deeply preoccupied. Several times she stopped at the book- 
stall, and absently glanced at the titles of the various journals; and, 
indeed, when at length she purchased one or tw'o papers, she forgot 
to take up the change, and had to be called back by the pretty young 
lady behind the counter. Then she glanced at the clock, handed the 
newspapers to her maid, and bade her wait there for a few minutes: 
and forthwith entered the Station Hotel. 

She passed along the corridor, and vrent into the drawing-room. 
Prom that room she had a full view of the general reading-room, 
which forms the center of the building, and is lit from the roof; and 
the first glance showed her the person of wiiom she w'as in search. 
The Master of Lynn, the sole occupant of the place, was lying back 
in a cane-bottoined rocking chair, turning over the pages of Punch. 

” So 1 have found j^ou at last. What are you doing here?” she 
said— rather sharply. 

He looked up. 

” I might ask the same question of you,” he answered, with much 
coolness. 

” You know well enough. It is not for nothing I have come all 
the way from Inverstroy.” 

“You must have got up early,” he remarked. 

” 1 want to know what you are doing here.” 

” 1 am reading Punch.'' 

Yes,” said she. with some bitterness; ” and I suppose your chief 
occupation is playing billiards all day long with commercial travel- 
ers!” 

” One might be worse employed.” 

Archie, let us have none of this nonsense. What do you mean 
to do? Why don’t you answ^er my letters?” 

“Because you make too much of a fuss. Because you are too 
portentous. Now, I like a quiet life. That is why I arn here; I 
came here to have a little peace.” 

” Well, I don’t understand you at all,” his sister said, in a hope- 
less kind of way. ” I could understand it better if you were one of 
those young men wao are attracted by every pretty face they see, 
and are always in a simmering condition of love-making But you 
are pot like that. And I thought you were proud to think of Yolandg 


YOLAKDE. 195 

as your future wife. I can remember one day on board the dahabeah. 
You were anxious enough then. What has changed you?” 

” 1 do not know that I am changed,” said he, either with indiffer- 
ene or an affectation of indifference. 

” Is Shena Van in Inverness?” said Mrs. Graham, sharply. 

” 1 suppose Miss Stewart lias as good a right to be in Inverness as 
anybody else,” he said, formally. 

” Do you mean to say you don’t know whether she is in Inverness 
or not?” ^ 

” I did not say anything of the kind.” 

” Have you spoken to her?” 

” Don’t keep on bothering, ” he said, impatiently. Miss Stewart 
is in Inverness; and, if you want to know, lhave not spoken a single 
word to her. Is that enough?” 

” Why are you here, then? What are you going to do?” 

” Nothing.” 

” Really, this is too bad, Archie,” his sister said, in deep vexation. 
” You are throwing away the best prospects a young man ever had, 
and all for what! For temper!” 

” I don’t call it temper at all,” said he. ‘‘ I call it self-respect. 1 
have told you already that I would not degrade Yolande Winter- 
bourne so far as to plead for her being received by my family. A 
pretty idea!” 

“ There would have been no necessity to plead, if only you had 
exercised a little patience, and tact, and judgment. And surely it is 
not too late yet. * Just think how much pleasanter it would be for 
you, and for all of us, in the future if you w^ere rather more on an 
equal footing with Jim — 1 mean as regards money. I don’t see 
why you shouldn’t have your clothes made at Poole’s as Jim has. 
Why shouldn’t you have chamois leather pockets in your overcoat 
as well as he?” 

” I can do without chamois-leather pockets,” he answered. 

” Very well,” said she, suddenly changing the mode of her attack. 
” but what you cannot do without is the reputation of having acted 
as a gentleman. You are bound in honor to keep faith with Yolande 
Winterbourne.” 

“lam bound in honor not to allow her to subject herself to in- 
sult,” he retorted. 

” Oh, there will be nothing of the kind!” his sister exclaimed. 
‘‘ How can you be so unreasonable?” 

” You don’t know the worst of it,” said he, gloomily. ‘‘ I 
only got to know the other day. Yolande’s mother is alive— an 
opium drinker. Off her head at times — kicks up rows in the streets 
— and they are helpless, becau.se they have all been in this conspiracy 
to keep it back from Yolande ” 

” You don’t mean that, Archie!” his sister exclaimed, looking 
very grave. 

” I do, though. And, you know, his lordship might in time be 
got to overlook the Radical papa, but a mamma who might at any 
moment figure in a police court— I think not even you could get him 
to stand that.” 

” But, Archie, this is dreadful!” Mrs. Graham exclaimed again. 

I dare say it is. It is the fact, however.” 


196 


YOLA^^DE. 


“ And that is why he was so anxious to get Yolande awav from 
London,” she said, thoughtfully, ” Poor man, what a terrible life 
to lead,” 

She was silent forsorre time; she was reading the story more 
clearly now— his continual traveling with Yolande, his liking for 
long voyages, his wish that the girl should live in the Highlands 
after her marriage. And perhaps, also, his warm and obvious ap- 
proval of that marriage?— she knew that fathers with only daughters 
were not always so complaisant. 

Two or three strangers came into the reading-room, 

” Archie,” said she, waking up from a reverie, ” let us go out for 
a stroll. I must think over this.” 

He went and fetched his hat and stick; and the maid having been 
directed to go into the hotel and await her mistress’s return, the 
brother and sister went outside and proceeded to walk leisurely 
through the bright and cheerful little town, in the direction of the 
harbor. 

” What is your own view of the matter?” she said at length, and 
somewhat cautiously. 

” Oh, my position is perfectly clear. 1 can have nothins: to do 
with any such system of secrecy and terrorism. I told Jack Melville 
that when be came as a sort of embassador. 1 said I would on no 
account whatever subi’ect myself to such unnecessary risks and 
anxieties. My contention was that, first of all, the whole truth 
should be told to Yolande; then if that woman keeps quiet, good 
and well : if not, we can appeal to the law and have her forcibly con- 
fined. There is nothing more simple^, and 1 dare say it could be kept 
out of the papers. But then, you see, my dear Mrs. Polly, there is 
also the possibility that it might get into the papers; and if you add 
on this little possibility to what bis lordship already thinks about the 
whole affair, you may guess what use all your beautiful persuasion 
and tact and conciliation would be.” 

”1 don’t see,” said Mrs. Graham, slowly, “why papa should 
know anything about it. It does not concern him. Many families 
have ne’er-do-well or disreputable members; and simply nothing is 
said about them; and they are supposed not to exist. Friends of the 
family ignore them; they are simply not mentioned; until in time 
they are forgotten altogether; it is as if they did not exist 1 don’t 
see why papa should be told anything about it.” 

” Oh, I am for having everything straightforward,” said he. *‘ 1 
don’t wish to have anything thrown in my teeth afterward. But 
the point isn’t worth discussing, in the present state of his lordship’s 
temper; and it isn’t liKely to be, so long as that old cat is at his 
elbow. Well, now, that is what Mr. Winterbourne might fairly 
say. He might say we had no right to object to his having a half- 
maniac wife in his family so long as we had an entirely maniac aunt 
— who is also a cantankerous old beast — in ours.” 

” Archie, I must ask you to be more decent in your language!” 
his sister said, angrily. ” Is that the way the young men talk a# 
Balliol now?” 

” I guess it’s the way they talk everywhere, when they happen t 
have the luxury of having an Aunt Colquhoun as a relative.” 


YOLAKDE. 


197 

“ My dear Master, you won’t go very far to put matters straight 
if you continue in that mood.” 

“ Am 1 anxious to go far to put matters straight?” 

‘* You ought to be — for the sake of Miss Winterbourne,” said his 
sister, stiffly. 

” No,” he answered; ” it is they who ought to be — for the sake oi 
Lynn.” 

Well, she saw there was not much to be done with him just then; 
and, indeed, there was something in what he had told her. that 
wanted thinking over. But in the meantime she was greatly relieved 
to find that he had not (as she had suspected) resumed auy kind of 
relations with Shena Van; and she was anxious above all things to 
get him away from Inverness. 

‘‘ When are you going back to Lynn?” she asked. 

‘‘ I don’t know,” he answered, carelessly. 

‘‘ Now, do be sensible, Archie, and go down with me in this after 
noon’s steamer. All this trouble wiU be removed in good time; and 
you need not make the operation unnecessarily difficult. I am going 
down to Fort Augustus by the three o’clock boat; you can come 
with me as far as Foyers,” 

” Oh, 1 don’t mind,” he said, ” 1 have had a little peace and quiet; 
I can afford to go back to the menagerie. Only there won’t be any- 
body to meet me at Foyers.” 

” You can get a dog-cart from Mrs. Elder,” his sister said. “ And 
if you were very nice, you would take me back to your hotel now, 
and give me some lunch, for 1 am frightfully hungry. Do you 
know at what hour 1 had to get up in order to catch the boat at 
Fort Augustus?” 

*‘ 1 don’t see why you did it.” 

” No, perhaps not. But when you are as old as 1 am, you will 
see with different eyes. You will see what chances you had at this 
moment, that you seem willing to let slip through your fingers; and 
why? — because you have not enough patience to withstand a little 
opposition. But you knew perfectly well, when you asked Yolande 
Winterbourne to marry you, on board the dahabeah, that papa 
might very probably have objections; and you took the risk; and 
now, when you find there are objections and opposition, I don't 
think it is quite fair for you to throw the whole thing up, and leave 
the girl deserted, and every one disappointed. And it all depends 
on yourself. You have only to be patient and conciliatory; when 
they see that you are not to be affected by their opposition, they will 
give in, in time. And as soon as the people go away from Inver- 
stroy, I will come over and help you.” 

He said nothing; so they went back and had lunch at the hotel; 
and in due time, Mrs. Graham’s maid accompanying, they drove 
along to the Canal and got on board the little steamer. They had a 
beautiful sail dowm Loch Ness on this still, golden afternoon; but 
perhaps the picturesqueness of the scenery was a trifle familiar to 
them; in fact, they regarded the noble loch mostly as an excellent 
highway for the easy transference of casks and hampers from Inver- 
ness, and their chief impression of the famous Falls of Foyers was 
as to the height of the hill that their horses had to climb in going 
and coming between Foyers and Lynn. 


198 YOLAKDK 

As they were slowly steaming in to Foyers pier, pretty Mrs. Gra- 
ham said, 

“ I wonder if that can be Yolande herself in that dog-cart. Yes; 
it is; that is her white Rubens hat. Lucky, for you, Master; if 
she gives you a lift, it will save you hiring.” 

” I don’t think,” said he, with a faint touch of scorn, ” that the 
mutual excess of courtesy which has been interchanged between 
Lynn Towers and Allt-nam-ba would warrant me in accepting such 
a favor. But the cat bows when she and Yolande pass. Oh, yes,, 
she does as much as that.” 

“And she will do a little more in time, if only you are reasona- 
ble,” said his sister, who still hoped that all would be well. 

Young Leslie had merely a hand-bag with him. When he left the 
steamer, he walked along the pier by himself until he reached the 
road, and there he found Yolande seated in the dog-cart. He went 
up and shook hands with her; and she seemed very pleased to see 
him. 

‘‘You are going to Lynn? Shall I drive you out?” 

‘‘No, thank you,” said he, somewhat stiffly. ” I will not trou- 
ble you. 1 can get a trap at the hotel.” 

She looked surprised, and then, perhaps, a trifle reserved. 

” Oh, very well,” said she, with calm politeness. “ The hotel 
carriages have more room than this little one. Good-by.” 

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had no quarrel with 
her. She might be the indirect cause of all this trouble and confu- 
sion that had befallen him ; but she was certainly not the direct 
cause. She was in absolute ignorance of it in fact. And so he lin- 
gered for a second; and then he said, looking up, 

” You have no one coming by the steamer?” 

” Oh, no,” she said; butshedid not renew the invitation — indeed, 
there was just a touch of coldness in her manner. 

‘‘ If I thought I should not overload the dog-cart,” said he, railu-r 
shamefacedly, ‘‘I would beg of you to give me a seat. I under- 
stand the stag’s head has come down by this steamer. I saw it at 
Macleay’s this morning.” 

” It is that I have come in for— that only,” she said. ” There is 
plenty of room, if you wish.” 

So, without more ado he put his hand-bag into the dog-cart, be- 
hind; and there also was deposited the stag’s head that Sandy was 
now bringing along from the steamer. Then, when the lad had 
gone to the horse s head, Yolande got down; for she always walked 
this steep hill, w^hether going or coming; and, of course, no men 
folk could remain in the vehicle when she was on foot. So she 
and the Master now set out together. 

” I hope they have been having good sport at Allt-nam ba,” he 
said. 

‘‘ Oh, yes.” 

It was clear that his unaccountable refusal of her invitation had 
surprised her; and her manner was distinctly reserved. Seeing 
that, he took the more pains to please her. 

” Macleay has done the stag’s head very w’^ell,” said he; ” and 1 
have no doubt Mr. Shortlands will be proud of it. Pity it isn’t a 
royal; but still it is a good head. It is curious how people’s ideas 


YOLANDE. 


199 

change as they go on preserving stags’ heads. At first, it is every- 
thing they shoot, no matter what; and every head must be stuffed. 
Then they begin to find that expensive; and they take to boiling the 
heads, keeping only the skull and horns. Then they begin to im- 
prove their collection by weeding out the second- and third rate 
heads, which they give to their friends. And then in the end, they 
are quite disappointed with anything short of a royal. I went into 
Macleay’s a day or two ago, and asked him to push 90 with that 
head. 1 thought Mr. Shortlands would like to see how it looked 
hung up in the lodge: and 1 thought you might like to see it too.” 

” It was very kind of you,” she said. 

‘‘ Has the great hare drive come off?” he asked— and surely he 
was trying to be as pleasant as he could be. ” O, I think you said 
it was to be to-morrow. I should like to have gone with them; but, 
to tell you the truth, Yolande, I am a little bit ashamed. Your 
lather has been too kind to me, that is the fact. Of course, if we 
had the forest in our own hands, it would not matter so much; for 
your father then might have a return invitation to go for a day or 
Iwo’s deer-stalking. But with ever3’thing let, you see, I am help- 
less; and 5mur father’s kindness to me has been almost embarrassing. 
Then there is another thing. My father and aunt are odd people. 
They live too much in seclusion; they have got out of the way of 
entertaining friends, because, with the forest and the shooting al- 
ways let, they could scarcely ask any one to come and live in such 
a remote place. It is a pity. Look at the other families in Inver- 
jiess-shire; look at Lord Lovat, look at Lord Seafield, look at The 
Mackintosh, and these; they go out into the world; they don’t box 
themselves up in one place. But then we are poor folk, that is one 
reason, perhaps; and my father has just one mania in his life — to 
improve the condition of Lynn; and so he has not gone about, per- 
haps, as others might have done. 

Now it sounded well in her ears that this young man should be 
inclined to make excuses for his father, even when, as she suspect- 
ed, the domestic relations at the Towers were somewhat strained; 
and she instantly adopted a more friendly tone toward him. 

“Ah,” said she, ” what a misfortune yesterday! The red shep 
herd came running in to say that there were some deer up the glen 
of the Allt-Crom; and, of course, every one hurried away— my papa 
and Mr. Shortlands to two of the passes. What a misfortune, there 
being no one with the beaters. They came upon them, yes, a stag 
and four hinds, quite calmly standing and nibbling, and awa}^ — 
away — they went up the hill, not going near either of the guns. 
Was it not sad?” 

” Not for the deer.” 

“ And my papa not to have a stag’s head to take back as well 
as Mr. Shortlands!” she said, in great disappointment. 

“ Oh, but, if you like, he shall have a finer head to take back 
than any he would be likely to get in half a dozen years of those 
odd chances. 1 will give him one I shot — with three horns. I 
have always had a clear understanding about that; anything I 
shoot is mine — it doesn’t belong to the furniture of Lynn Towers. 
And I will give that head to your father, if you like; it is a very 
remarkable one, I can assure you.” 


200 


YOLAl^DE, 


“ That is kind of you,” she said. They were on more friendly 
terms now; she had forgiven him. 

When they got to the summit of the hill, they got into the 
dog-cart; and descended the other side, and drove away through 
the wooded and rocky country. She seemed pleased to be on 
better terms with him; and he, on P^^t, was particularly 
good-natured and friendly. But when they drew near to Gress 
she grew a little more thoughtful. She could not quite discard 
those hints she had received. Then her father’s anxious trouble— 
was that merely caused by the disagreement that had broken out 
between the Master and his relatives? If that were all matters 
would mend, surely. She, at all events, was willing to let time 
work his healing wonders; she was in no hurry; and certainly her 
pride was not deeply wounded. She rather liked the Master’s 
excuses for these old people who lived so much out of the world. 
And she was distinctly glad that now there was no suspicion of 
an 'Iness between herself and him. 



There was no one visible at Gress; and they drove on without stop- 
ping. When they arrived at the bridge, the Master got down to open 
the swinging iron gate, telling Sandy to keep his seat, and it was not 
worth his while to get up again. 

” Now,” said Yolande, brightly, ” I hope you will change your 
mind and come along to-morrow morning to Allt-nam-ba and go 
with the gentlemen, after all. It is to be a gi-eat aftair.” 

“ I will see if I can manage it,” said he, evasively; and then they 
bade each other good-by, and she drove on. 

But although they had seen no one at Gress, Jack Melville had 
seen them. He was far up the hillside, seated on some bracken 
among the rocks; and his elbows were on his knees, and his head 
resting on his hands. He had gone away up there to be perfectly 
ald^^e— to think over all that he was to say to Yolande on the next 
day. It was a terrible task; and he knew it. 

He saw them drive by; and his heart had a great pity for the girl. 

” The evening is coming over the sky now,” he was thinking, as 
he looked around, ” and she has left behind her the last of the light- 
hearted days of her life.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


FABULA NARRATUR 


Early next morning (for he was anxious to get this painful thing 
over) he walked slowly and thoughtfully up to Allt-nam-ba. He 
knew she was at home; for the dog-cart had gone by with only 
Sandy in it. Perhaps she might be indoors— working at the micro- 
scope he had lent her, or arranging ner plants. 

She had seen him come up the strath; she was at the door await- 
ing him, her face radiant. 

” Ah, but why are you so late?” she cried. “ They are all away. 
Shepherds and gillies and all, two hours ago.” 

” I did not mean to go with them. I have come to have a chat 
with you, Yolande, if you will let me.” 

He spoke carelessly; but there was something in his look that she 


TOLANBE. 201 

noticed; and when she had preceded him into the little drawing- 
room. she turned and regarded him. 

“ What is it? Is it serious?” she said, scanning his face. 

Well, he had carefully planned how he would approach the sub- 
ject; but at this moment all his elaborate designs went clear away 
from his brain. A far rpore happy expedient than any he had 
thought of had that instant occurred to him. He would tell her this 
story" as of some one else. 

“It is serious in a way,” said he, “ for I am troubled about an 
unfortunate plight that a friend of mine is in. Why should 1 bother 
you about it? — but still, you might give me your advice.” 

” My advice?” she said. ” If it would be of any service to you. 
yes, yes! But how could it be? What experience of the world 
have 1 had?” 

“ It isn’t a question of experience of the world; it is a question of 
human nature mostly,” said he. ‘‘And this friend of mine is a 
girl just about your own age. You might tell me what you would 
do in the same circumstances.” 

“ But I might do something very foolish.” 

‘‘ I only want to know what you would naturally feel inclined to 
do. That is the question. You could easily tell me that; and I 
could not find it out for myself — no, not if I were to set all my elec- 
tric machines going.” 

‘‘ Ah, well, I will listen very patiently, if 1 am to judge,” said 
she. ‘‘And I am glad it is not anything worse. I thought when 
you came in it was something very serious.” 

He did not wish to be too serious; and, indeed, he managed to tell 
her the whole story in a fashion so plain, manner of fact, and un- 
concerned that she never for an instant dreamed of its referring to 
herself. Of course he left out all details and circumstances lljat 
might positively have given her a clew ; and only described the 
tral situation as between mother and daughter. And Yolande had 
a great compassion for that poor, debased wmman; and some pity, 
too, for the girl who was kept in ignorance of her mother being 
alive; and she sat with her hands clasped on her knees, regarding 
these two imaginary figures, as it were, and too much interested in 
them to remember that her counsel was being asked concerning 
them. 

‘‘ Now. you see, Yolande,” he continued, “ it appears that one of 
the results of using those damnable^I beg your pardon — I really beg 
your pardon— I mean those — those poisonous drugs, is that the will 
entirely goes. The poor wretches have no command over them- 
selves; they live in a dream; they will promise anything — they will 
make the most solemn vows of abstinence— and be quite unable to 
resist the temptation. And the law practically puts no check on the 
use of these fiendish things; even when the public houses are closed ^ 
the chemist’s shop is open. Now, Yolande, I have a kind of theory 
or project with regard to that poor woman— 1 don’t know whether 
the doctors w'ould approve of it— but it is a fancy I have: let us sup- 
pose that that poor wretch of a mother does not quite understand 
that her daughter has grown up to be a woman — most likely she 
still regards her as a child- that is a very common thing — at all 
events she is not likely to know anything as to what her daughter 


^02 YOLAKDE. 

is like. And suppose that this daughter were to go to her mother 
and declare herself; do you not think that that would be enough to 
startle her out of her dream; and do you not think that in the be- 
wilderment of finding their relations reserved — the child grown to 
be a woman assuming a kind of protection and authority and com- 
mand over the broken-down creature— she might be got to rely on 
that help and encouraged and strengthened by constant care and 
affection to retrieve herself? Don’t you think it is possible? To be 
startled out of that dream by shame and horror; then the wonder of 
having that beautiful daughter her champion and protectress; then 
the continual reward of her compauionship; don’t you think it is 
possible?” 

‘‘Oh, yes— oh, yes, surely!” said the girl. ‘‘Surely you are 
right!” 

‘‘ But then, Tolande, 1 am afraid you don’t understand what a ter- 
rible business it will be. It will demand the most constant watch- 
fulness; for these drugs are easy to gel ; and people who use them 
are very cunning. And it will require along time -perhaps years — 
before one could be certain that the woman was saved. Now look 
at it from the other side. Might not one say, ‘ That poor woman’s 
life is gone, is done for: why should you destroy this other young 
life in trying to save a wreck? Why should destroy one happy hu- 
man existence in trying to rescue the mere remnant of another hu- 
man existence that would be worthless and useless even if you suc- 
ceed? Why should not the girl live her own life in peace and hap- 
piness?’ ” 

‘‘But that is not what you would say; that is not what you 
think,” she said, confldentl3^ ‘‘And do you ask what the girl 
would think? — for I can tell you that. Oh, yes, I can tell you — she 
would despise any one who offered her such a choice!” 

” But she would be in ignorance, Yolande; she would know 
nothing about it.” 

‘‘ She ought not to be in ignorance, then! Why do they not tell 
her? Why not ask herself what she will do? Ah, and all this time 
the poor wmman left to herself— it was not right — it was not just!” 

‘‘ But she has not been left to herself, Yolande. Everything has 
been tried — everything but this. And that is why I have come to 
ask you what you think a girl in that position would naturally do. 
What would she do if she were told?” 

‘‘ There cannot be a doubt,” she exclaimed, ” Oh, there cannot be 
a doubt! You — 1 know what your feeling is — what your opinion is. 
And yet you hesitate? Why? Go; and you will see what her an- 
swer will be!” 

‘‘ Do you mean to say, Yolande,” he said, deliberately and re- 
garding her at the same time, ‘‘ that you have no doubt whatever? 
You say I am to go and ask this young girl to sacrifice her life — or 
it may be only a part, but that the best part, of her life— on this 
chance of rescuing a poor broken-down creature ” 

‘‘ Her mother,"' said Yolande. 

‘‘ What will she think of me, 1 wonder,” he said, absently. 

The answer was decisive. 

‘‘ If she is the girl that you say, oh, I know how she will be grate- 
ful to you. She will bless you. She will look on you as the best 


and dearest of her friends, who had courage when the others were 
afraid, who had faith in her.” 

“Yolande,” said he, almost solemnly, ‘‘you have decided for 
yourself.” 

‘‘I” she said, in amazement. 

‘‘Your mother is alive.” 

She uttered a sharp cry — of pain, it seemed. 

” My mother— my mother — like that” 

For a time this agony of shame and horror deprived her of all 
power of utterance; the blow had fallen heavily. Her most cher- 
ished and beautiful ideals lay broken at her feet: in their place was 
this stern and ghastly picture that he had placed before her mental 
eyes. He had not softened down any of the details; it was necessary 
that she should know the truth. A.nd she had been so much inter- 
ested in the story, as he patiently put it before her, that now she had 
but little dithculty — alas! — she had no difficulty at all— in placing 
herself in the position of that imaginary daughter, and realizing 
what she had to face. 

He wailed. He had faith in her courage; but he would give her 
time. This was a sudden thing to happen to a girl of nineteen. 

“ Well,” she said, at length, in a low voice, ‘‘ I will go.” 

Her hands were tightly clinched together; but she showed no 
symptom of faltering. Presently she said, in the same steady, con- 
strained way — 

‘* 1 will go at once. Does pai)a know you were comiLg here to- 
dav to tell me?” 

Yes. He could not do it himself. Yolande. He has suffered 
fearfully during these long years in order to hide this from you; he 
thought it wmuld only pain you to know— that you could do no 
good.” 

‘‘What induced him to change his mind?” 

He was embarrassed; he had not expected the question. She 
glanced at his face. 

‘‘ Was that the objection at Lynn Towers?” she said, calmly. 

•‘ No, Yolande, no; it was not. 1 dare say Lord Lynn does not 
quite approve of your father’s politics; but that has nothing to do 
with you.” 

‘‘ Then it was your idea that 1 should be told?” 

‘‘ Well,” said he, uneasily, ‘‘ possibly your father imagined that 
Archie Leslie might not like — might think he had been unfairly 
treated if be were not told— and then, 1 was his friend, don’t you 
see, and they mentioned the matter to me — and- and— being an out- 
sider, I was reluctant to interefere at first— but then, when they spoke 
of telling you, I said to myself that I knew, or 1 fancied I knew, 
what a girl like Yolande Winterbourne would be sure to do in such 
circumstances — and so 1 thought I would venture the suggestion to 
them, and— and, if it turned out to be so, then I might be of some 
little help to you. ” 

That was cleverly done; he had not told her it was the Master of 
Lynn who had insisted on that disclosure. 

And now she was gathering her courage to her; though still she 
maintained a curious sort of constrained reserve, as though she were 
keeping a tight hold of her feelings. \ 


YOLANDE. 


204 


“ 1 suppose,” she said, slowly, *‘ it is your idea I should go there 
— alone?” 

” If you are not afraid, Yolande, if you are not afraid!” he said, 
anxiously. 

“ I am not afraid.” 

“ Don t you see, Y'olande,” he said, eagerly, ” if you go accompa- 
nied by a stranger, she may think it is a solicitor— people in that weak 
menial state are usually suspicious; and if you go with your father, 
she would probably only consider it a repetition of former interviews, 
that came to nothing. No; it is the sudden appearance of her daugh- 
ter that will startle her into consciousness of w'hatsheis. Then don’t 
mind those people she is with. Don’t be afraid of them. They 
dare not detain her. You will have a policeman waiting outside; 
and your maid will go into the house with you, and wait in the 
passage. Y^ou will have to assume authority. Y"our mother may be 
a bit dazed, poor woman: you must take her with you; let no one 
interfere. Now, do you think you have nerve for that— all by your- 
self?” 

” Oh. yes, 1 think so,” she said, calmly. ” But I must begin at 
the beginning. I cannot leave the lodge without putting some one 
in charge ” 

” I will send up Mrs. Bell— she will be delighted.” 

” Ah, will you?” she said, with a quick glance of gratitude break- 
ing through her forced composure. ” If only she w’ould be so kind 
as to do that! She knows everything that is wanted ” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself about that for a moment,” he said. 
” Mrs. Bell will be delighted — there is nothing she would not do 
for you.” 

” Then I must take away my things with me; perhaps 1 shall not 
see Allt-nam-ba again ; my life will be altered now. Where do I go 
when I reach London?” 

‘‘ I should say the hotel your father and you were at once or twice, 
in Albemarle Street. But are you sure, Yolande, you would rather 
not have some one go with you to London and see you to your 
quarters in the hotel? Why, I would myself— with pleasure; for 
my assistant, Dalrymple, gets on well in the school now. Or Mr. 
Shortlands — he is going south soon, is he not? I would not ask 
your father; it would be too painful for him.” 

” No ” she said, ” I do not want any one. Jane and I will do 
very well. Besides, I could not wait for’ Mr. Shortlands. 1 am go- 
ing at once.” 

‘‘ At once! Surely you will take time to consider ” 

‘‘lam going to-morrow,” she said, ” if Mrs. Bell will be so kind 
as to come and take my place.” 

” Don’t be so precijutate, Y'olande,” he said, with some anxiety. 
” I have put all this before you for your consideration; and 1 should 
feel I was burdened with a terrible responsibility if you were to do 
anything you might afterward regret. Will you consult Mr. Short- 
lands?” 

She shook her head. 

” Will you take a week to think over it?” 

“No; why?” she said simply. ” Did 1 not consider when you 
were telling me the story of this imaginary girl? Had I any doubt? 


yOLAJNDE. 


205 

No. 1 knew what she would decide. I know what 1 have decided. 
What use is there in delay? Ah, if there is to be the good come out 
of it that you have imagined for me, should I not haste? When one 
is perishing, you do not think twice if you can hold out your hand. 
Do you think that I regret — that I am sorry to leave a little comfort 
behind — that I am afraid to take a little trouble? Surely you do not 
think that of me. Why 1 am anxious to go now is to see at once 
what can be done; to know the worst or the best; to try. And now 
—1 shall not be speaking to my papa about it; that would only give 
pain— will you tell me what 1 should do, in all the small particulars? 

I am not likely to forget.” 

That he could do easily; for he had thought enough over the 
matter. He gave her the most minute instructions; guarding against 
this or that possibility; and she listened mutely and attentively, 
with scarcely the interruption of a question. Then, at length, he 
rose to say good-by; and she rose too. He did not notice that as she 
did so her lips quivered for the briefest second. 

He hesitated. 

” If you are going to-morrow, Yolande,” said he, ” 1 will see you 
as you pass. I will look out for j’-ou, I should like to say good-by 
to you ; it may be for a long time. ” 

” It may be for always,” she said, with her eyes cast down;” per- 
haps 1 shall never be back here again.” 

” And 1 am sending you away into all this trouble and grief. 
How can 1 help knowing that it is I who am doing it? And perhaps, 
day after day, and night after night, I shall be trying to justify my- 
self — when I am thinking over it, and wondering where you are; 
and perhaps I shall not succeed very well.” 

” But it is I who justify you-^that is enough, she said, in a low 
voice. ” Did I not decide for myself. And 1 know that in your 
heart you think I am doing right; and if you are afraid for me — well, 
that is only kindness-such as that you have always shown to 
me ” 

Here she stopped; and he did not see that her hands were clinched 
firm, as she stood there opposite him, with her eyes cast down. 

” And whatever happens, Yolande— you may be in pain and grief 
— and perhaps all you may endure may only end in bitter disappoint- 
ment-well, 1 hope .you will not imagine that I came to you with 
my proposal unthinkingly. 1 have thought over it night and day. 

I did not come to you oMand ” 

” Ah, then,” she said quickly, ” and you think it is necessary to 
justify yourself — you, to me, as if I did not know you as well as I -- 
know myself! Do you think I do not know you and understand you 
— because 1 am only a girl?” Her forced composure was break- 
ing down altogether; she was trembling somewhat; and now there 
were tears running down her cheeks, despite herself; though she re- 
garded him bravely, as if she would not acknowledge that. ” And 
you asked me what the girl you spoke of would think of the man who 
came to her and showed her what she should do? Did 1 not answer? 

I said she would know then that he was the one who had faith in 
her; that she would give him her gratitude; that she would know 
who was her best and truest friend. And now, just as you and 1 
are about to say good-by, perhaps forever, you think it necessary for 


206 


YOLANDE. 


you to justify yourself to me— you, my best friend — my more than 
friend ” 

And I hen — ah, who can tell how such things happen, or which is 
to bear the blame? — his arms were round her trembling figure, and 
she was sobbing violenlly on his breast. And what was this wild 
thing she said in the bewilderment of her grief — “ Oh, why, why 
was my life given away before I ever saw you?” 

“ Yolancle,” said he, with his face very pale, ” I am going to say 
something; for this is our last meeting. What can a few words 
matter— my darling! — if we are never to see each other again? I 
love you. I shall love you while 1 have life. Why should I not say 
it for this once? 1 blinded myself ; 1 tried to think it friendship — 
friendship, and the world was just tilled with light whenever 1 saw 
you! It is our last meeting; you will let me say this for once — how 
can it harm 5 mu?” 

8he shrank out of his embrace; she sank down on the couch there, 
and turned away her head and hid her face in her hands. 

“Go, go!” she murmured. “ What have 1 done? For pity’s 
sake, go— and forget! Forget!” 

He knelt down by the side of the couuch; and he was paler than 
ever now. 

“ Yolande, it is for you to forget — and forgive. I have been a 
traitor to my friend; I have been a traitor to you. You shall never 
see me again. God bless you!— and good by!” 

He kissed her hair; and rose; and got himself out of the house. 
As he went down that wide strath — his eyes fixed on nothing, like 
one demented; and his mind whirling this way and that amid clouds 
of remorse and reproach and immeasurable pity— it seemed to him 
that he felt on his brow the weight of the brand of Cain. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

PREPARATIONS. 

And as for her; she was stunned almost into unconsciousness by 
this shock of self-abasement and distress. She lay on the sofa, her 
face covered with her bands; she could not face the light. What 
was she, then— she who hitherto had been so fearless and so proud. 
A flirt, a jilt, a light- o’ love-- that v/as how she shw herself; and 
then there was a kind of despair over the misery she had wrought, 
and a yearning to have him back to implore his pity and his forgive- 
ness; and then sudden resolves to free herself in another direction, 
at any cost of penitence and humiliation. She began to compose 
hurried, brief messages, though the throbbing brain and the shame- 
stricken soul could scarce decide between the fitness of them. These 
were some of them : 

“ Dear Papa,— 1 have gone away. Tell Archie not to think any 
more about me. 

“ Yolande.” 

And then again: 

“Dear Archie,— I send you back the engagement ring; lam 
not worthy to be your wife. 1 am sorry if I have caused you any 
disappointment, but you have less to regret than I have.” 


YOLANDE. 


207 


And then again— to one not named at all: 

“ To-day I go away. Kever think of me again, or of what has 
happened. Forgive me; that is all.” 

And then she began to think — if this wild torture of suggestions 
could be called thinking — of the undertaking that lay before her, 
and the thought of it was something of a relief. There would be 
an occupation, urgent, continuous, demanding all her attention; in 
time, and in a measure, she might school herself to forget. Perhaps, 
if this duty turned out to be a very sad and painful one, it might be 
taken by those whom she had wronged as a sort of penance? She 
was prepared to suffer. She thought she deserved to suffer. Had 
she not proved a traitor to the man whom she had promised to 
marry? Had she not brought misery to this best and dearest nf all 
her friends, to this line and noble nature that she had learned to 
know, and that by her idlenevss and carelessness — the carelessness of 
a vain coquette and light-o’-love, heedless of consequences? What 
would he think of her? She could only vaguely recall the reproaches 
he had heaped upon himself; but she "knew that he was m distress 
and |hat she was the cause of it. And perhaps if there were trials 
in store for her, if there was suffering in store for her, perhaps he 
would never know that she rather welcomed that, and was content 
to receive her punishment? Perhaps he would never know how 
grieved she was? It was over and done, and past recall. And she 
knew that henceforth her life would be quite different to her. 

How long she lay there in that misery of remorse and despair she 
probably never knew, but at last she forced herself to rise. She was 
not thinking of her appearance; she <lid not know that her face was 
haggard and pale; that an expression never before there was there 
now; that her eyes were no longer the eyes of a child. She was 
going away — this was all she was compelling herself to think about 
— and there were preparations to be made. And so in a slow and 
mechanical fashion she began lo put a few things together, even in 
this drawing-room, although every other minute her heart seemed 
to stand still as she came upon some little trifle that was associated 
with liim — something he had done for her, something that he had 
brought her, showing his continued solicitude and ttioiightfulness 
and affection. Why had she not seen? Why did she not under- 
stand? And then she began to think of the evenings he had spent 
at the house, and of the walks they had had together down the 
wide valley; and she began to know why it was that these even- 
ings had seemed so rich in happy human sympathies, and why the 
valley had appeared so wondrous and beautiful, and why her life at 
Allt-nam-ba had so strange and unnariiable a charm thrown over it. 
And he — he had been blind too. She knew that he could not have 
imagined it possible that he was betraying his friend; otherwise he 
would have fled from the place. She w^as standing quite still now, 
her eyes distraught, and she was trying to recall the very tones in 
which he had said, ” 1 love you.” That was the misery of it, and 
the cause of her shame, and the just reason for her remorse and 
self-abasement; and yet— and yet somewhere or other deep down in 
her heart there was a curious touch of pride that she had heard those 
words. If circumstances had been different — to be approved, to 


208 


YOLAKDE. 


have won the affection, to be loved one like that? And then a 
paseiou^of self-contempt seized her, and she said to herself: “ You, 
to think ypurself worthy of such a love! You, who ran allow your- 
self to tliAnk of such things with that ring on your finger!” 

This also was strange, that, amid all the preparations for depart- 
ure that she was now mechanically making, she should be possessed 
by a singular anxiety that Mrs. Bell when she came to Allt-nara-ba, 
should find the household arrangements in the most perfect order. 
Had she some vague hope or fancy, then, that some day or other, 
vvhen she should be far enough away from Allt-nam-ba and Gress and 
Lynn, and not likely to see any one of them again, her name might be 
mentioned casually by this good woman, and mentioned perhaps 
with some slight word of approval? When she drew out for Mrs. 
Bell’s guidance a list of her arrangements with the Inverness 
tradesmen, she was dissatisfied with the mere handwriting of it 
(for indeed her fingers trembled somewhat), and she destroyed it 
and wrote out another, and that she destroyed, and wrote out 
another — until the handwriting was fairly clear and correct. 

Her maid Jane was a fool of a woman, but even she could see that 
her young mistress was faint-looking, and even ill-looking, and 
again and again she besought her to desist from these preparations, 
and to go and have some lunch, which awaited her in the dining- 
room. 

‘‘You know, miss,” said she, ‘‘you can’t go before your papa 
comes home; and then it wmuld be far too late to catch the steamer. 
You can’t go before the morning; and 1 am sure, miss, you will be 
quite ill and unable to travel if you don’t eat something.” 

Well, Y’olande went into the dining-room, and sat down at the 
table; but she could not eat or drink anything; and in a minute or 
two she was back again in her bedroom superintending the packing 
of her trunks. How'ever, she was in time compelled to desist. The 
mental agitation of the morning, combined with this want of food, 
produced the natural result; she gradually acquired a violent head- 
ache — a headache so violent that further superintendence of packing 
or anything else wms entirely out of the question. Now it was the 
literal fact that she had never had a headache in her life — except 
once, at the Chateau, when a large volume she was reaching for in 
the library fell and struck her — and she did not know what to do; 
but she fancied that by tying a wet towel round her head she might 
lessen the throbbing ol the temples; and this she did, lying dowm 
the while. Jane stole out of the room, fancying her young mistress 
might now get some sleep. The girl was not thinking of sleep. 

Mr. Winterbourne and John Shortlands were on their W’ay back 
from the hill. 

‘‘ I scarcely know^ what has happened to-day,” Mr. Winterbourne 
■was saying. ‘‘ All the time I have been thinking of our going back. 
And I know what I shall find when 1 go back — the w'reck of the 
happiness that I have so carefully nursed all through these years. 
It is like hedging round a garden, and growing flow^ers there, and 
all at once, some morning, you find the place trampled down and a 
wilderness. I hope I am not unjust, Shortlands, but I think he 
might have spared her.” 

” Who?” 


YOLAKDE, 209 

“ Young Leslie, I think he might have spared her. It was not 
much. Don’t you think — out of consideration ” 

“ Nonsense, man. What young Leslie has done seems to me, on 
reflection, perfectly just, and right, and reasonable,” said John 
Shortlands, telling a lie in the calmest manner possible. ‘‘The 
young people ought not to be hampered in starting life. A little 
trouble now — what is that? And it will be better for you too, Win- 
terbourne. You would have kept on worrying yourself. You 
would have been always apprehensive about something. You 
would have reproached yourself for not telling him.” 

” 1 am not thinking of myself,” Yolande’s father said, rather 
wistfully ‘‘I could have borne all that; 1 am used to it. It is 
about her I am thinking. 1 remember in Egypt, away up at that 
still place, wondering wdiether all her life might not be just as quiet 
and uneventful and happy as it was there.” 

‘‘The fact is. Winterbourne,” said John Shortlands, b^unth”, 
‘‘ you are just mad about that child of yours, and you expect the 
world to be changed all on her own account; whereas every rea- 
sonable being knows that she must take her chance of trouble as 
well as others. And this — what is this? Is it so great an affair? 
You don’t know yet whether she will follow out that suggestion of 
Melville’s Perhaps she won’t. If you would rather she should 
not, no doubt she will abide by your wishes. By this lime she nas 
been told. The secret is at an end. Leslie has had what he wanted: 
what the devil more can he ask for?” 

But the asperity of this last phrase rather betrayed his private 
opinion; and so he added, quickly: 

” However, as you say, she is more likely to go. Well, why not 
look at the brighter side of things? There is a possibility. Oh, you 
needn’t shake your head; when 1 look at the whole thing from Mel- 
ville’s point of view I can see the possibility. He’s a devilish long- 
headed fellow that, and a devilish fine fellow too, not many men 
would have bothered their heads as he has done. I wouldn’t. If 
you and I weren’t old friends, do you think I would have inter- 
fered? I’d have let you go on your own way. But now, oM chap, 
I think you’ll find Yolande ready to go; and you’d better not make 
too much fuss about it, and frighten the girl. I shall be in London; 
I shall see she has plenty of money.” 

‘‘ It seems so inhuman,” her father said, absently. 

“ What?” 

‘‘.That I should remain here shooting, and she be allow^ed to go 
away there alone.” 

‘‘ My dear fellow, she’ll get on twenty times better without you,” 
said Shortlands, plainly. ‘‘ It seems to me that what you say Mel- 
ville pointed out to vou was just the perfection of good advice. 
You’ll do well to abide by it.” 

‘‘ But he does not know Yolande as I do,” her father said. 

‘‘ He seems to have made a thundering good guess, anywaJ^” 

“ I don’t mean that. He does not know how she has been 
brought up — always looked after and cared for. She has never been 
allow’ed to shift about for herself. Oh, as regards herself, I can see 
well enough that he imagines she has certain qualities, and perhaps 
he thinks it rather fine to make experiments. Well, I don’t. I 


YOLANDE. 


210 

don’t see why ITolande should be made the victim of any experi- 
ment ; 1 am content witli her as she is.” 

” You’d better see what she says about it herself.” 

When they reached the lodge, Yolande was not, as usual, stand- 
ing in the porch to welcome them home from the hill. 

Please, sir,” said the maid, ‘‘Miss Winterbourne has a head- 
ache, and says would you excuse her coming down to dinner.” 

He stood irresolute for a second or two, obviously greatly dis- 
turbed; then he slowdy and thoughtfully went up the stairs, and 
gently knocked at the door of her room. 

” May 1 come in, Yolande?” 

She had just time to untie the wet towel from her head, to smooth 
her hair, and sit up in bed. 

‘‘ Yes, papa.” 

He entered, went over and drew a chair near to her, and sat down. 

‘‘ I am sorry for you, Yolande,” he said, in a low voice, and his 
eyes were nervously bent on the ground. 

‘‘ Why, papa?” 

She spoke in quite a cheerful way; and as he had not suffered his 
eyes to meet hers, he was unaware liow that cheerfulness was belied 
by the strange expression in them. She was forcing herself to make 
light of thif matter; she would not have him troubled. And per- 
haps, indeed, to her this was in truth a light matter, as compared 
with that tragic disclosure and its consequences which seemed to 
have cut away fmm her at once and forever the shining and rose- 
colored years of her youth. 

‘‘ If I erred, Yolande,” said he, ‘‘ in keeping all this back from 
you, 1 did it for the best,” 

‘‘Do you need to say that to me papa?” she answered, with 
some touch of reproach. 

‘* I thought it would save you needless pain,” said he: and then, 
as he ventured to lift his eyes, he caujrht sight of the pale, anguish- 
stricken face, and he nearly cried aloud in his sudden alarm, ‘‘Yo- 
lande, are you ill?” 

‘‘ Oh no, papa;” and she did try her best to look very cheerful. 
“ I have a headache — that is all : and it is not so bad as it was. I — 
1 have been seeing things packed, and making arrangements,” 

‘‘ You are going, Yolande?” he said, with a sinking of the heart. 

‘‘ That, again, it is unnecessary for you to ask me,” the girl said, 
simply. 

" But not at once, Yolande?” said he, glancing at an open trunk. 
‘‘ Not at once?” 

‘‘ To-morrow morning, papa,” she answered, ‘‘ Oh, but T assure 
you, you will be put to no trouble — no trouble at all. Mrs. Bell is 
coming from Gress to see everything right. And I have made out 
lists for her; it is all arranged; you will not know any difference ” 

‘‘ Yolande, you will make me angry if you talk like that. What 
signifies our comfort? It is the notion of your going away by your- 
self ” 

“ Jane goes with me. That is all arranged, also,” she said, ‘‘ 1 
have no fear.” 

” Listen now, Yolande. 1 don’t disapprove of your going. Wo 
have tried everything, and failed: if there is a chance of yotir sue- 


tOLAKbl?. 211 

ceeding — perhaps one might say it is your duty to go. Poor 
child, I would rather have had you know nothing about it; but that 
is all over now. Well, you see, Yolande, if you go, there must be 
no unnecessary risk or trouble about your going. I have been 
thinking that perhaps Mr. Melville may be a little too imaginative. 
He sees things strongly. And in insisting that you should go alone, 
why, there may be a danger that he has been carried aWay by a — by 
a — well, I don’t know how to put it, except that he may be so anx- 
ious to have this striking appeal made to your poor mother as to be 
indifferent to ordinary precautions. Why should you go friendless 
and alone? Why should I remain amusing myself here?” 

Because you would be of no use to me, papa,” said she, calmly. 
” I know what 1 have to do,” 

‘‘ Why, then, should you not wait for a few days, and travel south 
with Mr. Shortlands?” 

“ Oh, I must go at once, papa — at once!” she exclaimed. ” I 
must go to-morrow. And Jane goes with me. Is it not simple 
enough?” 

“ Yolande, you cannot be left in London with absolutely no one 
to whom you can appeal. The least you must do is to take a letter 
to Lawrence & Lang. They will do anything you want; they will 
let you have what you want; if there is any hiring of lodgings or 
anything of that kind, they will send one of their clerks. You can- 
not be stranded in London without the chance of assistance. You 
must go to Lawrence & Lang.” 

“ 1 may have to go to them— that also is arranged. But they must 
not interfere, they must not come with me; that was not Mr. Mel- 
ville’s idea.” she said; though the pale face turned still paler as she 
forced herself to utter the name. 

‘‘ Mr. Melville!” he said, angrily. ‘‘ You seem to think the whole 
wisdom of the world is centered in Mr. Melville! I don’t at all 
know that he was right in coming to put all tliis trouble on you. 
Perhaps he would not have been so quick if itjiad been his own sis- 
ter or his own daughter ” 

Then a strange thing occurred. She had flung herself down on 
the pillow again, her face buried, her whole frame shaken by the 
sudden violence of her crying. 

“Don’t — don’t— don’t!” she sobbed, piteously. “Don’t speak 
like that, papa! there is enough trouble — there is enough.” 

“ What is iL Yolande?” said he. “ Well, no wonder your nerves 
have been upset. 1 wonder you have taken it so bravel3^ 1 will 
leave you now, Yolande; but you must try and come down to din- 
ner.” 

Dinner was put on the table; but she did not make her appear- 
ance. A message was'sent up to her; the answer was that she mere- 
ly wished to have a cup of tea by and by. Jane, on being ques- 
tioned, said that everything had been got ready for their departure 
the following morning, even to the ordering of the dog-carl for a 
particular hour. 

“Yes,” her father said to John Shortlands, as they sat rather 
silentlv at the dinner-table, “ she seems bent on going at once. Per- 
haps it is because she is nervous and anxious, and wants to_ know 
the worst. She won’t have any one with her; she is determined to 


YOLANDE. 


212 

keep to Melville’s plan, though 1 wanted her to wait and go south 
with you. What a dreadful thing it would be if any harm were to 
befall her ” 

“ Why, what harm can befall her?” his friend said. ” What is 
the journey to London?— nothing! She gets into the train at In- 
verness to-morrow at midday; the next morning she is in London. 
Then a cab takes her to the hotel: what more simple? The real risk 
begins after that; and it is then that your friend Melville insists that 
she should take the thing into her own hands. Well, dang me if 
I’m afraid of the consequences! There’s good grit in her. She 
hasn’t had her nerves destroyed, as yon have. AVhen the cob was 
scampering all over the place yesterday, and the groom couldn’t get 
hold of him, did she run into the house? Not much. She waylaid 
him at the end of the bothy, and got hold of him herself, and led 
him to the stable door. I don’t think the lass has a bad temper, but 
I shouldn’t like to be the one to put a finger on her against her 
will. Dv)n’t you fear. I can see where the bit of trouble, if there 
is to be any at all, will most like’y come in; and I am not afraid. 
It’a,^wondei'ful,,what wpmen win do — ay, and weak women too — in 
defense of those'wlio have acclaim on their affection. Talk about 
the tigress and her young: a woman’s twice as bad, or twice as 
good, if you take it that way. I fancy some o’ those poor devils of 
School Board inspectors must have a baddish time of it occasionally 
— I don’t envy them. I tell you you needn’t be afraid, iii}'- good 
fellow. Yolande will be able to take care of herself. And 1 think 
Jack Melville has put her on to doing the right thing, whatever 
comes of it.” 

Yolande did not appear that night; she was too much distracted 
by her own thoughts ; she did not wish to be confronted with ques- 
tioning eyes. But she found time to write this brief note: 

“ Tuesday Night. 

” Dear Mr. Shortlands, — As it is not likely I shall see you in 
the morning, for I am going away at a very early hour, I leavfe you 
this word of good-by. And please — please stay with papa as long 
as ever you conveniently can. Duncan assures me that it is now 3 ’'ou 
will be beginning to have chances with the red deer. 

” Yours affectionately. 

‘‘Yolande Winterbourne.” 

And as to that other— the friend who was sending her forth on 
this mission — was she going away without one word of good-by for 
him? She considered that; and did not sleep much that night. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ IHR MATTEN, LEBT WOHL!” 

The pale clear glow of the dawn was telling on the higher slopes 
of the hills when she arose, and all the house was asleep. The heart- 
searching of that long night had calmed her somewhat. Now she 
was chiefly anxious to get away; to seek forgetfulness of this sad 
discovery in the immediate duty that lay before her. And if some- 
times the fear was forced upon her that neither for him nor for her 


YOLANDE. 


213 , 

was forgetfulness possible, well, it" was not her own share of that 
suffering that she regarded witli dismay. Nay, did she not rather 
welcome that as a punishment which she deserved, as a penance 
which might be counted to her in the due course of years? If 
this passage in her life was not to be obliterated, at least, and in the 
meantime, she would endeavor to close the chapter. She was going 
away from Allt-nam-ba, and from the mistakes and miseries that 
had happened there. A new era in her life was opening before 
her; perhaps she would have less to reproach herself with in that. 

In the silence of this pale clear morning she sat down and wrote 
still another message of farewell, the terms of which she had care- 
fully (and not without some smitings of conscience) studied during 
the long wakeful hours: 

“ Allt-nam-ba, Wednesday Morning. 

“ Dear Archie, — A. grave duty calls me suddenly away to the 
south. No doubt you can guess what it is; and you will understand 
how, in the meantime at least, all our other plans and arrangements 
must yield to it. Probably, as I am anxious to catch the early boat 
at Foyers, I may not see you to say good-by; and so I send you this 
message. From your affectionate 

“ Yolande.” 

She regarded this letter with much self-humiliation. It was not 
frank. Perhaps she had no right to write to him so, without telling 
him of what had happened the day before. And yet, again, what 
time was there now for explanation? and perhaps, as the days and 
the months and the years went by, there might never be need of any 
explanation. Her life was to be all different now. 

The household began to stir. There was a crackling of wood in 
the kitchen; outside, Sandy could be heard opening the doors of the 
coach house. Then Jane put in an appearance, to finally close her 
young mistress’s portmanteaus. And then, everything having been 
got ready, when she went down stairs to the dining-room, she was 
surprised to find her father there. “ Why did you get up so early?” 
said she, in protest. 

” Do you think 1 was going to let you leave without saying good- 
by?” he answered. “ You are looking a little better this morning, 
Yolande — but not well, not well. Are you sure you won’t recon- 
sider? Will you not wait a few days, accustom yourself to think of 
it, and then go. if you will go, with Mr. Shortlauds?” 

” Oh no, that is all over, papa,” said she. ” That is all settled. 

I am going this morning — now.” 

‘‘Now? Why now? It is only half-past six!” he exclaimed. 

” 1 wish to have enough time at Gress,” she answered, calmly, 

“ to explain all the arrangements to Mrs. Bell.” 

But he compelled her to sit down and have some breakfast, while 
he remained at the window, anxious, disturbed, and yet for the 
most part silent. There was no doubt he regarded her going with 
an undefined dread; but he saw that it was no use to try to dissuade 
her, her purpose being so obviously settled and clear. There was 
another thing: he showed the greatest embarrassment in talking in 
any way whatever about the subject. He could not bring himself 
to mention his wife’s name. To Yolande he had said “your poor 


214 


YOLANDE. 


“ mother” — but only once. He seemed unable to make this thing 
that he had hidden from her for so many years a topic of conversa- 
tion. 

And it was almost in silence, and wi(h a face overshadowed with 
gloom, that he saw the last preparations made. He followed her 
out to the dog-cart. He himself would fasten the rugs round her 
knees, the morning being somewhat chilly. And when they drove 
away he stood there for a long time regarding them, until the dog- 
cart disappeared at the turning of the road, and Yolande was gone. 
This, then, was the end of that peaceful security that he had hoped 
to find at Allt-nam-ba! 

Yolande was not driving this morning; she had too many things 
to think of. But when they reached the bridge at the lower end of 
the loch, she told Sandy to stop, and took the reins. 

” Here is a letter for Mr, Leslie,” she said. ‘‘ You need not take 
it up to the house; put it in the letter-box at the gate.” 

Then they drove on again. When they had climbed the hill rhe 
looked over to Lynn Towers, but she could not make out any one at 
any of the windows. There were one or two stable lads about the 
out-houses, but otherwise no sign of life. She was rather glad of 
that. If he had waved his handkerchief to her, could she have an- 
swered that signal without further hypocrisy and shame? Little did 
he know what traitress was passing %. But indeed she was gradu- 
ally ceasing to.reproach herself in this way, for the reason that she 
was ceasing to think about herself at all. It was of another that 
she was thinking. It was his future that concerned her. What 
would all his after-life be like? Would there be some reparation? 
Would time heal that as it healed all things? 

When she got to Gress she saw that Mrs. Bell was in the garden 
behind the house, and thither she made her way. Yolande’s face 
was pale, but her manner was quite calm and firm, 

“ Well, here are doings!” said the cheerful old lady. ” And 1 
was just hurrying on to get a few bit flowers for ye. ’Deed, ye’re 
early this morning.” 

“It is very kind of you, Mrs. Bell; but please do not trouble. 
You expected me, then? Mr. — Mr. Melville told you?” 

“ That he did. And I’ll just be delighted to be of any kind of 
service to ye that is possible. I’ll be ready to go up to Allt-nam-ba 
by midday; and I’m thinking I’ll take one o’ the young lassies wi’ 
me, in case there’s any needcessity for a helping hand. The other 
one will do very well to look after this place when both Mr. Melville 
and me are away.” 

“ But is he going— is he going away?” said Yolande, with a sud- 
den alarm. 

“ I think he is; though it’s no my place to ask,” said Mrs. Bell, 
placidly. “ Last night I saw he was putting some things in order 
in the house. And I jalouse he stopped in the laboratory the whole 
night through, for he never was in his bed; and this morning 1 
caught a glint o’ him going out before any o’ us was up. I dare 
say he was off to one o’ the moorland lochs to have a last day at the 
trout belike.” 

“He is not here, then?” the girl exclaimed, with dismay in her 


YOLAifDt. 215 

eyes. “Mrs. Bell, I must see him! Indeed, I cannot go Until 1 
have seen him.” 

“ Wha kens where he may be now?” said the old lady, good- 
humoredly (for she clearly had no idea that there was anything tragic 
occurring around her). “ There never was such a man for wander- 
ing about the country like a warlock. Many a fright has he gi’en 
the shepherds, when they came upon him in the corries that no ordi- 
nary Cliristian ever goes near.” 

“ But you must send for him, Mrs. Bell,” said Yolande, with that 
forced calmness of demeanor almost breaking down. “ I cannot go 
away without bidding him good-by.” 

The old woman stopped arranging the flowers she had gathered. 

“ I canna send to search the whole county o’ Inverness,” she said, 
reflectively, “ and wha kens where he may be? If he’s no back by 
schooltime, he’s off for the day— ay, and without a biscuit in his 
pocket. I’ll be warrant. But it’s just, possible he has only gaen doon 
to the burn to get a trout or two; I can send one o’ the lassies to see. 
And though I’ve never kenned him to go up to the water-wheel at 
this time o’ the morning, I canna gang wrang in making the bell 
ring. If you’ll just hold the flowers for a minute, my dear young 
leddy. I’ll go into the house and see what can be done.” 

She held the flowers mechanically; she did not look at them: her 
eyes were “otherwhere.” But when Mrs. Bell came back she re- 
called herself ; and with such calmness as she could command she 
showed the old lady all the arrangements she had made with regard 
to the household of Allt-nam-ba, and gave her the lists that she had 
carefully drawn out. And Mrs. Bell would hear of no such things 
as thanks or gratitude; she said people were well off who could be 
of any little service to them they liked, and intimated that she was 
proud to do this for the sake of the young lady who had been kind 
enough to take notice of her. 

“And so you are going away for awhile,” said the old Soctch- 
woman, cheerfully. “ Ay, ay. But coming back soon again, I 
hope. Indeed, my'dear young leddy, if it wasna a kind o’ presump- 
tion on my part, 1 would say to ye, as they say in the old ballad ‘ O 
when will ye be back again, my hinnie and my dear?’ For indeed, 
since ye came to Allt-nam-ba, it has just been something to gladden 
an auld woman’s een.” 

“ W'hat is the ballad, Mrs. Bell?” Yolande said, quickly. She 
wished to evade these friendly inquiries. And already she was be- 
ginnng to wonder whether she had enough strength and courage to 
force herself to go without seeing him and saying this last word to 
him. 

“ The ballad? Oh, that was the ballad o’ young Randal,” said Mrs. 
Bell, in her good-natured, garrulous way. “ May be ye never heard 
that one? — 

‘ Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa’, 

A braw, braw lad was he when he gaed awa.” 

That is how it begins; and then they a’ come doon to see him ride 
off— his father and his mother, and his two sisters; but, as ye may 
imagine, 

‘ His bonnie cousin Jean lookit o’er the castle wa’, 

And far aboon the lave let the tears doon fa’.’ 


YOLANDE. 


21G 

Then it goes on : 

‘ “ O when will ye be back again?” sae kindly did she speer; 

** O when will ye be back again, my liiunie and my dear?” 

“ As soon as I have won enough o' Spanish gear 
To di’ess ye a’ in silks and lace, my dear.”^ 

That was the way o’ those times, and mony a sair heart was the con- 
sequence. Will 1 tell ye the rest o’ the story?” 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Bell, if you please,” said Ytilande, though now 
she was scanning the vacant hillsides with a wistful and troubled eye. 
Was he not coming, then? Must she go away without that las' 
word?” 

“ Ye see, my young leddy, the story jumps over a good man} 
years now, and he comes back to seek out his true-love Jean.” 

” Ah, yes,” said Yolande, with more of interest, ” to see whether 
she has been faithful to him, is it not? And of course she is. It is 
so easy for one to remain faithful — in a ballad, where nothing hap- 
pens but the fancy of the poet. And then, if she was not faithful, 
who would write about her? She would be contempt ible-»-that is 
all.” 

*‘ Not so fast, my dear young leddy — no so fast. Just listen to the 
story: 

‘ Young Randal was an altered man when he came hame; 

A sair altered man was he when he came hame, 

Wi’ a star on his breast and a Sir to his name. 

And wi’ gray, gray locks Sir Randal came hame. 

‘ He rode to the castle and he rispit at the ring, 

And down came our lady to bid him ride in ; 

And I’ound her bonnie bairnies were pla.yin’ on the green; 

‘‘ Can this auld wife be my true-love Jeau?” 

‘ ” And whatna dour auld carle is this?” quoth the dame, 

“ Sae griff, and sae stiff, sae feckless and sae lame?’ 

Quoth he : “ My bonnie leddy, were ye sweet JeanieGraham?” 

” Indeed, good sir, ye have guessed my very name.” 

‘ Oh, dool on the wars in the High Germanie! 

And dool on the poortith o’ our ain coimtrie ! 

And dool on the heart that unfaithful can be ! — 

For they’ve wrecked the bravest man in the whole coimtrie 1’ * 

.Y'e see, it’s a sad story enough; but I’m no sure whether to blame 
the wars in the High Germanie, or the poverl}’ o’ the old Scotch 
families, or the young lass changing her mind. May be if she had 
been less anxious for silks and lace, and may be if he had been less 
anxious to hae a Sir to his name, he might hae bided at home, and 
married her, and lived happily enough. It’s tj)£_way o’ young ))eo- 
ple never to b^ejatisfiei^ here is Mr. Melville goTngaway^^ 
when every tiling w~a8 ready for his taking back the land that belonlred 
to his own people, and settling down on it as he ought.” 

” Perhaps he will not go— perhaps he is not going, Mrs. Bell,” she 
said, in a despairing kind of way; for well she knew, if he were in- 
deed going, what was the cause.” 

Then she looked at her watch. Well, she had still nearly half an 
hour to spare, and she was determined to stay till the last minute if 

* Probably this version of the ballad is very imperfect, as It is put down 
here from memory. 


YOLANDE. 


217 

it were neeedful. But there was no figure coming along the road, 
no living thing visible on these vacant hillsides, nor a sign of life 
along the wide moorland of the valley. She was grateful for Mrs. 
Bell’s talking; it lessened the overstrain of the suspense somehow; 
she had to force herself to listen in a measure. And again and figain 
she expressed the hope that there must be a mistake, that Mr. Mel- 
ville was not really going away. 

“ It’s no my place to ask,” the old lady said, doubtfully; ” but he 
had a long talk when he came home yesterday wi’ the lad Dalrymple, 
and 1 jealouse it was about his being able to carry on the school by 
himsel.’ It’s just that vexatious, my dear young leddy ! — and yet it 
canna be helped. I darena say a word. He’s a headstrong "man, 
and he’s to be managed only wi a good deal o’ skill; and if he 
thought I was any kind o’ encumbrance, or expected him to do this, 
that, or the other, he would be off in a glilf. But the vexatiousness 
o’t, to be sure! It was only the day before yesterday that 1 wrote 
to they lawyers again. I’m no gaun to tell ye, my young leddy, 
what they said about the price o’ Monaglen, for it might get about, 
and I’m no wanting him to ken what 1 paid for it, if I get it. But 
1 found I could easy buy it, and have a good nest-egg for him be- 
sides, besides my own £220 a year or thereabouts: and sae I wrote 
to they lawyers just asking them in a kind o’ way to get me the re- 
fusal of the place for a freend o’ mine. And then yesterday morn- 
ing I began and argued wi’ mysel’. I coveted the place, that’s the 
truth. And says I, ‘ Kirsty, what’s the use o’ being ower-cunning? 
If ye want to buy Monaglen, tell them. A braw "thing now, if it 
were to slip through your fingers, and be snappit up by somebody 
else: wadna ye be a disappointed woman a’ the days o’ your life?’ 
And so, as second thochts are best, I just sat down and told them 
plump and plain that if Monaglen was to be got for that, here was a 
woman that would take it for that, and telled them to make the 
bargain, and drive a nail into it there and then; and that a’ the other 
things — a’ the whigmaleeries they invent just to make poor folk pay 
money— could be settled after. And to think o’ him going away the 
now, just when the night’s post, or may be the morn’s night’s post, 
is almost sure to bring me a telegram — I declare it’s too provokin’!” 

” But perhaps he is not going away,” said Yolande, gently. And 
then she added, suddenly, and with her face grown a deadly white: 
“ Mrs. Bell, that is Mr. Melville coming down the hill. I wish to 
speak a word or two to him by himself.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes; why not?” said Mrs. Bell, cheerfully. “ I’m just 
going indoors to put a big string round the flowers for ye. And 
there’s a wee bit basket too, ye maun take: I made a few sweets and 
comfits, and such things for ye last night, that’ll help to amuse ye 
on the journey.” 

She did not hear; she was regarding him as he approached. His 
features were as pale as her own; his lips were thin and white. 
When he came to her he stood before her with his eyes cast down 
like one guilty. The pallor of his face was frightful. 

” I have come because you sent for me,” he said. “ But there is 
nothing you can say to me that I have not said to myself.”^ 

” Do you think I have come to repoach you? No. It is I who 
have to bear the blame,” she answered, with apparent calmness. 


218 


YOLAKDE. 


Then she added; “ 1—1 sent for you because 1 could not go away 
without a word of good-by.” 

Here she stopped, fearful that her self-possession would desert her. 
Her hands were tightly clinched, and unconsciously she was nerv- 
ously fingering her engagement-ring. 

“Ido not see,” she said, speaking in a measured way, as if to 
make sure she should not breakdown, ” why the truth should not be 
said between us — it is the last time. 1 did not know, you did not 
know, it was all a misfortune; but 1 ought to have known— 1 ought 
to have guarded myself; it isl who am to blame. Well, if 1 have 
to suffer it is no matter; it is you that I am sorryfor ” 

” Yolande, I cannot have you talk like that!” he exclaimed. 

“One moment,” she said — and strangely enough her French 
accent seemed more marked in her speech, perhaps because she 'was 
not thinking of any accent. “ One moment. When 1 am gone away, 
do not think that 1 regret having met you and known you. It has 
been a misfortune for you; for me, no. It has been an honor to me 
that you were my friend, and an education also; you have shown 
me what this one or that one may be in the world: 1 had not known 
it before; you made me expect better things. It was you who 
showed me what 1 should do. Do not think that 1 shall forget 
what I owe you; whatever happens, I will try to think of what you 
would expect from me, and that will be my ambition. 1 wished to 
say this to you befoie 1 went away,” said she, and her fingers were 
trembling somewhat, despite her enforced calmness. “And also 
that— that, if one cannot retrieve the past, if one has the misfortune 
to bring suffering on ” 

“ Y^olande, Yolande,” said he, earnestly, and he looked up and 
looked into her eyes, “ do not speak of it —do not think of it any 
more! Put it behind you. Y"ou are no longer a girl; you are a 
woman; you have a woman’s duties before you. Whatever is past, 
let that be over and gone. If any one is to blame, it has not been 
you. Look before you; foriret what is behind. Do you know 
that it is not a light matter you have undertaken?” 

He was firmer than she was; he regarded her calmly, though still 
his face was of a ghastly paleness. 

She hesitated for a moment or two; then she glanced around. 

“ I wish you to— to give me a flow^er, she said, “ that I may take 
it with me.” 

“No,” he said at once. “ No. Forget everything that has hap- 
pened here, except the duty you ow'e to others.’^ 

“ That 1 have deserved,” she said, in a low voice. “ Good-by.” 

She held out her hand. He took it and held it; and there was a 
great compassion in his eyes. To her they seemed glorified eyes, 
the eyes of a saint, full of a sad and yearning pity. 

“ Yolande,” said he — and the tones of his voice seemed to reach 
her very heart—” I have faith in you. I shall hear of you. Be 
worthy of yourself. Now, God bless you, and good-by!” 

''Adieu'! adieii! murmured; and then, w’hite-faced and all 
trembling, but still dry-eyed and erect, she got through the house 
somehow, and out to the front, where Mrs. Bell was aw'aitingher by 
the side of the dog-cart. 

Wben she had driven away, Mrs. Bell remained for a minute or 


YOLANDE. 


219 

two looking after the departing vehicle — and perhaps rather regret- 
fully, too, for she had taken a great liking to this bright young En- 
glish lady who had come into these wilds; but presently she w’as 
recalled from her reveries or regrets by the calling of Mr. Melville. 
She went into the house at once. 

“ Now, Mrs. Bell, said he (and he seemed in an unusual hurry), 
“ do you think one of the girls could hunt out for me the waterproof 
coat that has the strap attached to it for slinging over the shoulders? 
And I suppose she could pack me some bit of cold meat, or some- 
thing of the kind, and half a loaf, in a little parcel?” 

‘‘Dear me, sir, I will do that mysel’ ; but where are ye going, sir, 
if 1 may ask?” 

The fact was that it was so unusual for Jack Melville to take any 
precautions of this kind— even when he was starting tor a long day’s 
fishing on some distant moorland loch— that Mrs. Bell instantly 
jumped to the conclusion that he was bent on some very desperate 
excursion. 

“ Where am 1 going?” he said. *‘ Why, across the hills to 
Kingussie, to catch the night train to London.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“DIR, O 8TILLES THAL, GRUSS ZUM LETZTENM AL ! ” 

The train roared and jangled through the long black night; and 
alwa5’^s before her shut but sleepless eyes rose vision after vision of 
that which she was leaving forever behind — her girlhood. Soquiet65 ' 
and beautiful, so rich in affection and kindness, that appeared to her 
now; she could scarce believe that it was herself she saw in those 
recurrent scenes, so glad and joyous and light-hearted. That was 
all over. Already it seemed far away. She beheld herself walking 
with her father along the still valley, in the moonlight; or out on 
the blue whalers of the loch, with the sun hot on the gunv/ale of the 
boat; or away up on the lonely hillsides, where the neighborhood of 
the w'ater-courses w^as marked by a wandering blaze of gold — wide- 
spread masses of the yellow saxifrage; or seated at the head of the 
dinner-table, with her friends laughing and talking;— and all that life 
w'as grown distant now. She was as one expelled from paradise. 
And sometimes, in spite of herself, in spite of all her wise and firm re- 
solves, her heart would utter to itself a sort of cry of despair. VVh}’^ 
did he refuse her that bit of a flower to take away with her? It 
was so small a thing. And then she thought of the look of his eyes 
as he regarded Jier; of the great pity and tenderness shining there; 
and of the words of courage and hope that he had epoken to her as 
she left. Well, she would show herself worthy of his faith in her. 
She would force away from her those idle regrets over a too beauti- 
ful past. A new life was opening before her; she was content to 
accept whatever it might bring. Who could grudge to her this long 
last review of the life she was leaving forever? Farewell— farewell! 
She was not even carrying away with her a bit of a leaf or a blos- 
som, to awaken memories, in the after-time, of the garden in which 
she had so often stood in the white clear air, with the sunlight all 


YOLAKDE. 


220 

around her. Well, it was better so. And perhaps in the new life 
that she was entering she would And such duties and occupations 
as would effectually prevent the recurrence of this long night’s tort- 
ure — this vision-building out of the past, this inexplicable yearning, 
this vain stretching out of the hands to that she was leaving forever. 

Toward morning she slept a little, but not much; however, on the 
first occasion of her opening her eyes, she found that the gray light 
of the new day was around her. For an instant a shock of fear 
overcame her — a sudden sense of helplessness and affright. She was 
so strangely situated; she w’as drawing near the great, dread city; 
she knew^ not what lay before her;’ and she felt so much alone. De- 
spite herself, tears began to trickle down her face, and her lips were 
tremulous. This new day seemed terrible, and she was helpless — 
and alone. # 

“ Dear me, miss,” said Jane, happening to wake up at this mo- 
ment, “ what is the matter?” 

‘‘It is nothing,” her young mistress said. ‘‘I — 1 have scarcely 
slept at all these two nights, and I feel rather weak and — and — not 
very well. It is no matter.” 

But the tears fell faster now ; and this sense of weakness and help- 
lessness completely overpowered her. She fairly broke down. 

” I will tell you wdiat it is,” she sobbed, in a kind of recklessness 
of despair. “It is that I have undertaken to do what is beyond me. 
1 am not fit for it. They have asked too much of me. It is beyond 
what 1 can do. What can 1 do?— when I feel that I should be 
happy if I could only lie down and die, and be the cause of no more 
trouble to any one!” 

The maid was very much startled by these words, though she 
little guessed the cause of them. And indeed her young mistress 
very speedily— and by a force of will that she did not suspect herself 
of possessing — put an end to this half -hysterical fit. She drew her- 
self up erect: she dried her eyes; and she told Jane that as soon as 
they got to the hotel she w^ould go to bed for an hour or two and try 
to get some sleep; for that really this long fit of w^akefulness had 
filled her head with all sorts of ridiculous fancies. 

And that was the last sign of weakness. Pale her face might be, 
as she set about the undertaking of this duty; but slie had steeled 
her heart. Fortunately, when they got to the hotel, and when she 
had had some breakfast, she was able to snatch an hour or two’s 
sound and refreshing sleep in the silence of her own room; and 
when she reappeared even the dull-witied Jane noticed how much 
better and brisker she looked. Nay, there w^as even a kind of hope- 
fulness and cheerfulness in the w'ay she set about making her prepa- 
rations. And first of all she told Jane fully and frankly of the 
errand on which she had come to London ; and this, as it turned 
out, was a wise thing to do; for the good Jane regarded the whole 
situation, and her probable share in the adventure, with a stolid self- 
sufficiency which was as good as any courage. Oh, she said, she 
was not afraid of such people! Probably she knew belter how to 
manage them than a young lady w^ould. They wouldn’t frighten 
her! And she not obscurely hinted that, if there was any kind of 
incivility going on, she was quite capable of giving as good as she 
got. 


TOLANDE. 


221 

Yolande had resolved, among other things, that, while she would 
implicitly obey Mr. Melville’s instructions about making that appeal 
to her mother entirely unaided and unaccompanied, she might also 
prudently follow her father’s advice and get such help as was neceS' 
sary, with regard to preliminary arrangements, from his solicitors-, 
inore especially as she had met one of those gentlemen two or three 
times, and so far was on friendly terms with him. Accordingly, 
one of the first things she did was to get into a cab, accompanied 
by her maid, and drive to the offices of Lawrence & Lang in Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields. She asked for Mr. Lang; and by and by was shown into 
that gentleman’s room. He was a tall, elderly person, with white 
hair, a shrewd, thin face, and humorous, good-natured smile. 

“ Take a seat, Miss Winterbourne,” said he. ” Very lucky you 
came now. In another ten minutes 1 should have been off to seek 
you at the Hotel; and we should have crossed each other.” 

“ But how did you know I was at the Hotel?” she said, with 

a stare of astonishment. 

“Ah, we lawyers are supposed to know everything,” be an- 
swered, good-naturedly. “ And I may tell you that I know of 
the business that has brought you to London; and that we shall be 
most happy to give all the assistance in our power.” 

“ But how can you know?” the girl said, bewildered. “ It was 
only the day before yesterday I decided to go; and it was only this 
morning I reached London. Did my papa write to you, then, with- 
out telling me?” 

“ My dear young lady, if I were to answer your questions, you 
would no longer believe in the omniscience of lawyers!” he said, 
with his grave smile. “ No, no; you must assume that we know 
everything. And let me tell you that the step you are taking, though 
it is a bold one, deserves to be successful; perhaps it will be success- 
ful because it is a bold one. I hope so. But you must be prepared 
for a shock. Your mother has been ill.” 

“ Ah!” said Yolande — but no more. She held her hands clasped. 

“Isay she ?ias been ill,” said this elderly suave person, who 
seemed to regard the girl with a very kindly interest. “ Now she 
is better. Three weeks ago my clerk found her unable to sign the 
receipt that he usually brings away with him; and 1 was about to 
write to your father, when I thought 1 would wait a day or two 
and see; and, fortunately, she got a little better. However, you 
must be prepared to find her looking ill; and— and— w^ell, I was 
going to say she might be incapable of recognizing you; but 1 for- 
got. In the meantime we shall be pleased to be of every assistance 
to you in our power, in fact we have been instructed to consider 
you as under our protection. I hope you find the Hotel com- 

fortable?” 

“ Oh, yes — oh, yes,” Yolande said, absently: she was not think- 
ing of any hotel; she was thinking in what way these people could 
be of help to her. 

“Of course,” said he, “when you go to see your mother, 1 
could send some one with you, if you wished it; or I would go with 
you myself, for that matter; but 1 understand that is not considered 
desirable.” 

“ Oh no,” said she; “ I must go alone. 1 wish to see her alone.” 


222 


YOLAl^DE. 


“As for your personal safety,” said he, “that need not alarm 
you. Your friends may be anxious about you, no doubt; but the 
very worst that can happen will be a little impertinence. You 
won’t mind that. 1 shall have a policeman in plain clothes stand- 
ing bj ; if your maid should consider it necessary she can easily 
summon him to you. She will be inside, he outside; so 3mu have 
nothing to fear.” 

“ Then you know all how it has been arranged!” she exclaimed. 

“ Why, yes; it is our business here to know everything.” said he, 
laughing. “ though we are not allowed sometimes to say how we 
came by the information. Now what else can we 'do for you? Let 
me see. If jmur poor mother will go with you, you might wish to 
take her to some quiet seaside place, perhaps, for her health?” 

“ Oh, yes; I wish to take her away from London at once!” Yo^ 
lande said, eagerly. 

“ Well, a client of ours has just left some lodgings at Worthing — 
in fact, we have recommended them, on one or two occasions, and 
we have been told that the.y gave satisfaction. The rooms are clean 
and nicely furnished ; and the landlady is civil and obliging. She is 
a gentlewoman, in short, in reduced circumstances; but not over- 
reaching. I think you might safely take the rooms.” 

“ Will you give me the addresss, if j^ou please?” 

He wrote the address on a card, and gave it her. 

But do not trouble to write,” said he; “ w^ewill do that for you, 
and arrange terms.” 

“ But I must go down to see the place first,” said she. “ I can go 
there and get back in one day — to morrow — can I not?” 

“ But why should you give yoursdf so much trouble?” he said. 

“ What a daughter can do for her own inother, that is nOt called 
trouble,” she answered, simply. “ Is Worthing a large towm?” 

“ No; not a larse town. It is one of the smaller watering places. ” 

“ But one could hire there a pony and a pony-chaise?” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ And could one take the rooms and hire the pony and pony- 
chaise conditionally?” 

“ I don’t quite understand you.” 

“ Could one say, ‘ Yes, I shall want these most likely; but if I 
telegraph to you to-morrow or next day that I do not w'ant them, 
then there is no bargain and there is nothing to pay?’ ” 

“ 1 have no doubt they would make that arrangement with you. 
That would be merely reserving the refusal for you for a certain 
number of days.” 

“ Two days at the most,” said Yolande, who seemed to have stud- 
ied this matter — even as she used to study the details of her future 
housekeeping at Allt-nam-ba when she was sitting on the deck of 
the great steamer with the Medterranean sea around her. 

“ May I presume to ask,” said he, “ whetlier you are sufficiently 
supplied with money? We have no instructions from your father; 
but we shall be pleased if you consider us your bankers.” 

“I have only eight or nine pounds,” said she, “in money; but 
also I have three blank checks which my papa signed: that is 
enou^, is it not?” 

“ Well, yes, 1 should say that was enough,” he remarked, with a 


YOLANDE. 


223 

perfectly subdued irony. “ But those blank checks are dangerous 
things, if 3''ou will permit me to say so. I would strongly advise 
you, my dear Miss Winterbourne, to destroy them; and to send to us 
for such sums as you may want from time to time. That would be 
much the safer plan. And if there is any other particular in which 
we cun be of the least assistance to you, you will please let us know. 
We can always send some one to you and a telegram from Worth- 
ing only costs a shilling. As we have received such strict injunc- 
tions about looking after you, we must keep up our character as 
your guardian.” 

”1 thought you said my papa had not sent you any instructions!” 
Yolande exclaimed again. 

” About the checks, my dear young lady,” said he, promptly. 

” Then 1 wish you to tell me something of those people — I wish 
to know who and what they are.” 

‘‘ I think. Miss Winterbourne,” said he, gravely, ‘ that the infor- 
mation would not edify you much.” 

“But I wish to kuow%” said she; ‘T wish to know the sort of 
people one must expect to find there.” 

” The facts are simple, then. He is a drunken scoundrel, to put the 
matter shortly. 1 believe he was once in a fairly good position — I 
rather think he was called to the Bar; but he never practiced. Bet- 
ting on races and drink finished him. between them. Then he tried 
to float a bit by marrying the proprietress of a public house — an 
illiterate woman; but he drank through her money, and the public 
house, and everything. Now they are supposed to let out this house 
in rooms; but, as that would involve trouble, my own impression is 
they have no lodgers but your mother, and are content to live on 
the very ample allowance that we are instructed to pay her monthly. 
Well, no doubt, they will be very angry if you succeed in taking 
away from thtun their source of income; and the man if he is drunk 
may be impertinent; but that is all you have to fear. 1 would 
strongly advise you to go in the evening. Then the presence of the 
policeman in the sfreet will not arouse suspicion ; and if there should 
be any trifling dislurbance it will be less likely to attract the notice 
of bystanders. Might I ask— please forgive me if I am impertinent ” 
—he said ” but 1 have known all about this sad story from the be- 
ginning and I am naturally curious— may 1 ask whether the idea of 
your going to your uiother alone and taking her away with you, 
alone, was a suggestion of your father’s?” 

” It was not,” said she, with downcast eyes. ” It was the sugges- 
tion of the friend whose acquaintanceship— whose friendship — we 
made in the Highlands — a Mr. Melville.” 

“Ah,” said he; and he glanced at a card that was lying, before 
him on the table. “ It is bold— bold,” he added, musingly. “ One 
thing is certain, everything else has failed. My dear young lady, I 
am afraid, however successful you may be, your life for some time 
to come will not be as happy and cheerful as one could wish for one 
of your age.” 

“ That I am not particular about,” said Yolande, absently. 

“ However, in a matter of this kind, it is not my place to advise. 

I am a servant only. You are going down to Worthing to-morrow : 
1 will give you a list of trains there and back, to save you the trouble 


YOLAKDE. 


2U 

of hunting through a time table. You will be back in the evening. 
Now, do you think it desirable that 1 should get this man whom I 
mean to employ in your service to hang about the neighborhood of 
the house to-morrow, just to get some notion of the comings and 
goings of the people?” 

” 1 think it would be most desirable,” Yolande said. 

” Very well; it shall be done. Let me see; this is Thursday; to- 
morrow you go to Worthing, could you call liere on Saturday to 

hear what the man has to say, or shall he wait on you at the 

Hotel?” 

” 1 would rather call here,” she said. 

‘‘ Very well; and what hour would be most convenient?” 

“Ten — is it too soon?” 

” Not at all,” said he, jotting down a memorandum on a diary 
before him. ” Now, one thing more. Will you oblige me by burn- 
ing those checks; I will write to your father, and take the respon- 
sibility.” 

“ If you think it right 1 will,” she said, ” as soon as I go back to 
the hotel.” 

“ And here,” he continued, goinar to a safe and fetching out some 
Bank of England notes, ” is £25 iD £5 notes; it is not so serious a 
matter if one of those should go a&tray. Please put these in your 
purse. Miss Winterbourne; and when you want any further sums, 
you have only to write to us.” 

She thanked him, and rose, and bade him good-by. 

‘‘ Good-by, Miss Winterbourne.” said he. in a very friendly way; 
” and please to remember that although, of course, all the resources 
of our firm are at your disposal, as a matter of business, still I hope 
you may count on us for something more than that, if there is any 
way we can help you— 1 mean, in a private and personal way. If 
any such occasion should arise, please remember that your father 
and I were friends together in Slagpool tive-and-thirty -years ago; 
and anything that I can do for his daughter will be a great pleas- 
ure to me.” 

As she left, she thought that Loudon did not seem to be, after all, 
such a terrible place to be alone in. Here was protection, guardian- 
ship, friendship, and assistance put all around her at the very outset. 
There were no more qualms or sinkings of the heart now.* When 
she got outside, it suddenly occurred to her that she would like to 
go away in search of the street in which her mother lived, and re- 
connoiter the house. Might tliere not be some chance of her coming 
out— the day was fairly tine for London? And how strange to see 
her mother walking before her. She felt sure she should recog- 
nize her. And then — perhaps — what if one were suddenly to dis- 
card all preparations? — what if she were to be quickly caught, and 
carried off, and transferred to the safety of the — — Hotel before 
any one could interfere? 

But when She had ordered the cabman to drive to Oxford Circus, 
and got into the cab, along with Jane, she firmly put away from 
her all these wild possibilities. This undertaking was too serious 
a matter to be imperiled by any rashness. She might look at the 
street, at the house, at the windows; but not if her mother were to 
come out and pass her by, touching her skirts even, would she de- 


YOLANDE. 225 

dare herself. She was determined to be worthy of the trust that had 
been placed in her. 

At Oxford Circus they dismissed the cab, and walked some short 
distance until they found the place they were in search of— a dull, 
respectable-looking, quiet misty little thoroughfare, lying just back 
from the continuous roar of Oxford Street. She passed the house 
once or twice, too, knowing it by its number; but there was no sign 
of life in it. The small, curtained windows showed no one sitting 
there or looking out. She waited and waited; went to distant 
points, and watched; but, save for an occasional butcher’s boy or 
postman, the street remained uniforml}' empty. Then ihe remem- 
bered that it was drawing toward the afternoon; and that poor Jane 
was probably starving; so she called another cab, and drove to the 
hotel. 

Next day was a busy day — after that life of quietude far away 
among the hills. She got to Worthing about twelve; and went 
straight to the lodgings that had been recommended by Rlr. Lang, 
whi(*h she found in one of the bright and cheerful-looking terraces 
fronting the sea. She was much pleased with the rooms, which were 
on the first floor — the sitting-room opening on to a balcony prettily 
decorated with flow^ers; and she also took rather a fancy to the little 
old lady herself, who was at first rather anxious and nervous, but 
who grew more friendly under the influence of Yolande’s calm and 
patronizing gentleness. Under the conditions mentioned to Mr. 
Lang, she took the rooms; and gave her name and address, and her 
father’s name and address, adding, with the smallest touch of pride— 

“ Of course you know him by reputation.” 

” Oh, yes, indeed,” somewhat vaguely said this timid, pretty, little 
old lady, who was the widow of a clergyman, and whose sole and 
whole notion of politics was that the Radicals and other evil-disposed 
persons of that kind were plotting the destruction of the Church of 
England, which to her meant nothing more nor less than the swal- 
lowing up of the visible universe. ” He is in Parliament, is he 
notv” 

” Yes,” said Yolande; ” and some people wish he were not there. 
He is a little too honest and outspoken for them,” 

Next she went to a livery-stable keeper, and asked about his terms 
for the hire of a pony and ponj’^-carriage. These terms seemed to 
her reasonable, but they were not; for she was judging them by the 
Inverness standard, whereas that standard is abnormally high, for 
the reason that the Inverness livery-stable keepers have demands 
made on them for only two or, at most, three months in the year, 
and are quite content, for the other nine months, to lend out their 
large stock of horses for nothing to any of the neighboring lairds 
or farmers who will take them and feed them. However, the mat- 
ter was not a serious one. 

The next morning she called at the office of Messrs. Lawrence and 
Lang; heard what the man who had been posted in that little thor- 
oughfare had to say; and arranged that she should go alone to the 
house that evening at eight o’clock. She had no longer in her eyes 
the pretty timidity and bashfulness of a child; she bore herself with 
the demeanor of a woman. 


226 


YOLANDE. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

AN ABDUCTION. ' 

A FEW minutes before eight on that evening, in the thoroughfare 
just mentioned, a short, thick-set man was standing by a lamp-post, 
either trying to read, or pretending to read, an evening newspaper 
by the dull yellow light. Presently a hansom cab drove up to the 
corner of the street and stopped there;, and a taller and younger man 
got out and came along to the lamp-post. 

“ 1 would go a dozen yards nearer,” said the new-comer. 

” Very well, sir,” said the other; and then he added: ” The mas- 
ter of the house has just gone out, sir.” 

” So much the better,” said the younger man, carelessly. ” There 
will be the less bother — probably none at all. But you keep a little 
bit nearer, after the young lady has gone into the house.” 

” Very well, sir.” 

The new-comer apparent!}' did not consider that any great vigi- 
lance or surveillance would be necessary; but all the same, while 
he still left the hansom at the corner of the street, he walked along 
a few yards further (glancing in passing at the windows of one of 
the houses), until he came to a narrow entry leading down into a 
courtyard; and there a step or two into the gloom of the little pas- 
sage effectually hid him from sight. 

Punctuall.y at eight o'clock a four-wheeled cab appeared and drew 
up; and Yolande got out, followed by her maid. Without delay or 
hesitation she crossed the pavement, au^ knocked at the door. A 
girl of about fifteen opened it. 

” Is Mrs. Winterbourne within?” said Yolande, calmly. 

The girl eyed her doubtfull.y. 

” Y — yes, miss.” 

” I wish to see her, if you please.” 

” Y — yes, miss — if you wait for a moment I’ll go and tell missis.” 

“No,” said Yolande, promptly— and she passed into the lobby 
without further ado. ‘‘No; I will not trouble your mistress. 
Please show me where I shall find Mrs. Winterbourne; that is 
enough.” 

Now the girl looked frightened; for the two strangers were inside; 
and she glanced behind her to see whether her mistress were not 
coming to her relief. Moreover, this tall young lady had an imperi- 
ous way with her. 

” Which is her room?” 

“ T— that is her sitting-room,” stammered the girl— indeed, they 
were all standing just outside the door of it. 

” Thank you,”‘she said, and she put her hand on the handle of 
the door. “ Jane, wait for me.” The next moment she was inside 
the room, and the door shut behind her. 

A spasm of fear caught her and struck her motionless. Some one 
sat there— some one in a chair— idly looking into the fire— a news- 
paper flung aside. And what horror might not have to be encotml- 


YOLANDE. 227 

ered now? She had been warned; she had prepared herself; but 
still 

Then the next moment a great flood of pity and joy and gratitude 
filled her heart; for the face that was turned to her — that regarded 
her with a mild surprise — though it was emaciated and pallid, was 
not unlovable; and the eyes were large and strange and melan- 
choly. This poor lady rose, and with a gentle courtesy regarded her 
visitor, and said: 

“ I beg your pardon; I did not hear you come into the room.” 

What a strange voice — hollow and distant; and it was clear that 
she was looking at this new-comer only with a vague half-pleased 
curiosity, not with any natural wonder at such an intrusion. Yo- 
lande could not speak. She forgot all that she had meant to say. 
Her heart seemed to be choking her. 

“ Mother, ” she managed to say at length, “you do not know, 
then, that I am your daughter.” 

“ My Yolande?” she said — and she retreated a step, as if in fear. 
“You are not my Yolande — you?” 

She regarded her apparently with some strange kind of dread — as 
if she were an apparition. There was no wonder, or joy^ or sudden 
impulse of affection. 

“ You — you cannot be my Yolande— my daughter?” 

“ But indeed 1 am, mother,” said the girl, with the tears running 
down her face in spite of herself. “Ah, it is cruel that I should 
come to you as a stranger — that you should have no word of kind- 
ness forme. But no matter. AVe shall soon make up for all these 
years. Mother, 1 have come to take you away. Y'ou must no 
longer be here, alone. Y^ou will come with me, will you not?” 

The pale, emaciated, hollow-voiced woman came nearer now, and 
took Yolande’s hand, and regarded her with a kind of vague, pleased 
curiosity and kindness. 

“ And you are really my Yolande, then? How tall you are; and 
beautiful, too— like an angel. When I have thouglit of you, it was 
not like this. What beautiful, beautiful hair; and so straight you 
have grown; and tall! So they have sent you to me at last. But it 
is too late now— too late.” 

“ No, no, mother, it is not too late! You will come away with 
me, will you not — now — at once?” 

The other shook her head sadly; and yet it was obvious that she 
was taking more and more interest in her daughter — regarding her 
from top to toe, admiring her dress even, and all the time holding 
her hand. 

“ Oh, no, I cannot go away with you,” she said. “ It is not for 
you to be hampered with one like me. I am content. I arn at 
peace here. lam quite happy here. You are young, rich, beau- 
tiful; you will have a beautiful life; everything beaul if ul round you. 
It is so strange to look at you! And who sent you? The lawyers, 
1 suppose. What do they want now? Why do they not let me 
alone?” 

She let the girl’s hand fall, and turned away dejectedly, and sank 
down into the easy-chair again, with a sigh. But Y'olande was mis- 
tress of herself now. She went forward, put her hand upon her 
mother’s shoulder, and said firmly: 


228 


YOLANDE. 


Mother, I will not allow yon to remain here. It is not a tit place 
for you. 1 ha^re come to take you away myself; the lawyers have 
nof sent me; they want nothing. Dear mother, do make up your 
mind to come away with me— now!” 

Her entreaty was urgent; for she could hear 'distinctly that there 
were some “high words” being bandied in the lobby; and she 
wished to get her mother away Tvithout any unseemlj’^ squabble. 

” Do, mother! Everything is ready You and I will go away 
together to VYoithing: and the sea air and the country drives wiil 
soon make you well again. I have got everything prepared for you 
— pretty rooms fronting the sea; and a balcony where you can sit 
and read; and 1 have a pony-carriage to take you for drives tlnough 
tbe lanes. Ah, now', to think it is your own daughter who is ask- 
ing you! You cannot refuse! You cannot refuse!” 

She had risen again, and taken Y'olande’s hand; but her look was 
hesitating, bewildered, 

‘‘ They will be angry,” said she, timidly; for now the dissension 
without was clearly audible. 

‘‘ Who, then?” said Y’olande, proudly. ” You will leave them 
to me, mother; I am not afraid. Ah, if 3^11 saw how much prettier 
the rooms are at Worthing! — yes; and no longer 3'ou will hav^e to sit 
alone by yourself in the evening. Come, mother!” 

At this moment tne door opened; and a short, stout, red faced, 
black-haired woman made her appearance. It was clear that the 
altercation with Jane had not improved her temper. 

“Ibeg your pardon, young lady,” said she, with studied def- 
erence, ” but I want to know what this means.” 

Yolande turned, with flashing eyes. 

” Leave the room!” 

For a second the woman was cowed by her manner; but the next 
moment she had bridled up again. 

Leave the room, indeed! Leave the room— in my own house! 
Not until I’m paid. And what’s more, the poor dear lady isn’t 
going to be taken away against tier will. She knows w'ho her friends 
are. She knows who have looked after her and nursed her. She 
sha’n’t be forced away from the house against her will, I warrant 
you.” 

” Leave the room this instant, or I will send for a policeman!” 
Yolande said; and she had drawn herself up to her full height; for 
her mother, poor creature, was timidly shrinking behind her. 

” A policeman! Hoity-toity!” said theother, with her little black 
eyes sparkling. ‘‘You’d better have no policemen in here. It’s 
not them that are robbing a poor woman that should call for a 
policeman. But you haven’t taken her with you yet; and what’s 
more, she sha’n’t move an inch out of this house until every farthing 
that’s owing to us is paid— that she sha’n’t. "We’re not going to be 
robbed, so long as there’s the law. Not till every farthing is 
paid, 1 warrant you!— so perhaps you’ll let the poor dear lady alone, 
and leave her in the care of them that she knows to be her friends. 
A policeman, indeed! Not one step shall she budge until every 
f rthing of her debt is paid!” 

Now'for the moment Yolande was completely disconcerted. It 
was a point she had not foreseen; it was a point, therefore, on which 


TOLAKBE. 


229 

she had asked no counsel. She had been assured by Mr. Lang that 
she had nothing to fear in taking away her mother from this house 
— that she was acting strictly witliin her legal rights. But how 
about this question of debt? Could they really detain her? Out- 
wardly, however, she showed no symptom of this sudden doubt. 
She said to the woman with perfect calmness — 

‘‘ Your impertinence will be of little use to you. My mother is 
going with me. I am her guardian: if you interfere with me, it will 
be at your own peril. If my mother owes you anything, it will be 
paid.” 

” How am I to know that? Here she is, and here she shall re- 
main. until every farthing is paid. We are not going to be robbed 
in that way!” 

“ I tell you that whatever is owing to you will be paid,” said Yo- 
lande. ” You need not pretend that you have any fear of being 
robbed; you know you will be paid. And now 1 wish you to tell 
me where my mother’s things are. Which is her bedroom?” 

” I’ll show you whether you can ride the high horse over me!” 
said the woman, with her eyes glittering with auger. ” I’ll go and 
fetch my husband — that I will.” And the next second she had left 
the room and the house too — running out into the night bareheaded. 

‘‘Now, mother,” said Yolande, quickly, “now is our chance! 
Where are your things? Oh, you must not think of packing any- 
thing; we will send for what you want to morrow. But do you 
really owe these people anything?” 

“ 1 don’t know,” said her mother, who seemed to have been terri- 
fied by this threat on the part of the woman. 

“ Well, then, where is your hat? — where is your shawl? Where 
is your room?” 

Almost mechanically she opened the folding-doors that formed 
one side of the apartment, disclosing beyond a bedroom. Yolande 
preceded her; picked up the things she wanted, and helped her to 
put them on. 

“ Come, now, mother; we will get away before they come back. 
Oh, you need not be afraid. Everything is arranged for you. There 
is a cab waiting for us outside.” 

“ Who is in it?” said the mother, drawing back with a gesture of 
fear. 

“ Why. no one at all!” said Yolande, cheerfully, “ But my maid 
is just outside, in the passage. Come along, mother!” 

“ Where are we going?” 

“To the hotel where I am staying, to be sure! Everything is 
arranged for you — we are to have supper together — you and I — all 
by ourselves. Will tliat please you, mother?” 

“ Wait for a moment, then.” 

She went back into the bedroom; and almost instantly reappeared 
— glancing at Yolande with a quick furtive look that the girl did not 
understand. She understood after. 

“Come, then!” 

She took her mother by the hand and led her as if she were a 
child. In the lobby they encountered Jane; and Jane was angry^ 

“ Another minute, miss, and I would have turned her out by the 
shoulders!” she said, savagely. 


280 


YOLAIn^BE. 


“ Oh, it is all right,’’ said Yolande, briskly. “Everything is 
quite right! Open the door, Jane, there’s a good girl.” 

They had got out from the house, and were indeed crossing the 
pavement, when the landlady again made her appearance, coming 
hurriedly up in the company of a man who looked like (what he 
was) a butler out of employment, and who was obviously drunk. 
He began to hector and bully. He interposed himself between them 
and the cab. 

“ You ain’t going away like this! You ain’t going to rob poor 
people like this! You come back into the house *until we settle this 
affair.” 

Now Yolande’s only aim was to get clear of the man and to get 
her mother put into the cab; but he stood in front of her, whichever 
way she made the attempt; and at last he put his hand on her arm, 
to force her back to the house. It was an unfortunate thing for him 
that he did so. There was a sudden crash; the man reeled back, 
staggered, and then fell like a log on to the pavement; and Yolande, 
bewildered by the instantaneous nature of the whole occurrence, only 
knew that something like a black shadow had gone swiftly by. All 
this appeared to have happened in a moment; and in that same mo- 
ment here was a policeman in plain clothes, whom she knew by sight. 

“ What a shame to strike the poor man!” said he, to the landlady, 
who was on her knees, shrieking, by the side of her husband. “ But 
he ain’t much hurt, mum. I’ll help him indoors, mum. I’m a 
constable, lam; I wish I knew who done that; I’d have the law 
agin him.” 

As he uttered these words of consolation, he regarded the prostrate 
man with perfect equanimity; and a glance over his shoulder in- 
formed him that, in the confusion, Y'olande and her mother and the 
maid had got into the cab and driven off. Then he proceeded to 
raise the stupefied ex-butler, who certainly had received a “ facer ”; 
but who presently came to himself as near as the fumes of rum 
would allow. Nay, he helped, or rather steadied, the man into the 
house; and assured the excited landlady that the law would find out 
who had committed this outrage; but he refused the offer of a glass 
of something, on the plea that he was on duty. Then he took down 
the number of the house in his note-book and left. 

As he walked along the street, he was suddenly accosted by the 
tall, broad-shouldered young man who had disappeared into the nar- 
row entry. 

“Why weren’t you up in time?” said the latter, angrily. 

“ Lor, sir, you was so quick!” 

“ Is that drunken idiot hurt?” 

“ Well, sir, he may ’ave a black eye in the morning— may be a 
pair on ’em. But ’tain’t no matter. He’ll think he run agin a lamp- 
post. He’s as drunk as drunk.” 

“ What was the row about?— I couldn’t hear a word.” 

“ Why, sir, they said as the lady owed them something.” 

“ Oh, that was the dodge. However, it’s all settled uow; very 
well settled. Let me see, I suppose Lawrence and Lang pay you?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, you know, I don’t think you did your best. Y"ou weren’t 
sharp enough. When you saw that drunken brute seize hold of the 


YOLAKDE. 


231 


young lady’s arm, you should have been there — on the spot— on the 
instant ” 

“ Lor, sir, you was'so quick!— and the man went over like a nine- 
pin ” 

“Well, (he affair is satisfactory as it stands,” said the younger 
and taller man; “ and 1 am well satisfied, and so I suppose you don’t 
mind riiy adding a sovereign to what Lawrence and Lang will give 
you.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said the man, touching his cap. 

“ Here you are, then. Good night.” 

“Goodnight, sir.” 

Then the younger man walked on to the corner of the street; 
jumped into the hansom that was still awaiting him there; called 
through the trap-door to the driver, “ United Universities, corner of 
Suffolk Street, Pall Mall,” and so was driven off. 

That same night Yolandc wrote the following letter to her father: — 

“ My dear Papa, — 1 wish that I might write this letter in French, 
for my heart is so full; but 1 know you would not like it, so 1 will 
do my best in English. It is all over and settled ; my mother is with 
me — in this room whe're 1 am writing — reading a little, but not so 
agitated by the events of the day, or rather this evening, that one 
might expect. It is I who am agitated; please forgive any errors. 
But, oh, it was the saddest thing ever seen in the world, for a mother 
to be standing opposite her own daughter, and not caring for her — 
not knowing her. We were two strangers. But my heart was glad. 
I had had the apprehension that I should have to overcome emotions; 
that it might be only duty that would keep me by her side; but no, 
no, when 1 saw her face, and her gentle eyes, 1 said to myself how 
easy would be the task of loving her as a daughter should. Dear 
papa, she is so ill; and also she seems so far away and absorbed and 
sad. She is onl}’’ a little interested in me — only a little. But yet I 
think she is pleased. 1 have showm her what wardrobe I have with 
me; and that pleased her a little; but it is I who will have to be the 
guardian; and buy things for her. She was pleased with my dress- 
ing-bag; and to-morrow 1 am going to buy her the most beautiful 
one I can get in London. Mr. Lang asked me to burn the three 
blank checks you gave me; and 1 did that; and lam to have money 
from him; but after the dressing-bag, 1 hope there will not be much 
expense; for we shall be living quietly at AVorthing, and I know 
that when you gave Mrs. Graham the expensive piece of broidery at 
Cairo you will not grudge me that I give my moth.er a beautiful 
dressing-bag. 

“ It has all happened just as Mr. Melville planned; how he could 
have foreseen so much 1 cannot tell; perhaps it is that 1 followed to 
his instructions as nearly as I could. The people were insolent some- 
what; but to me, not to my mother; so that is right. But at the 
end, when w^e wmre comiug away, the man seized me, and then I 
was frightened — he wished me to go back into the house — and then, 

I know not how, he was struck and fell, perhaps by the policeman 
it was, but I did not slay to look, I hurried my mother injjp the cab, 
and we are here safe and sound. Poor Jane is so angry. She de- 
mands to go back to-morrow, to recover some things of my moth- 


233 


YOLAKDE. 


er’s, and also that she wants to ‘ have it out ’ with the woman be- 
cause of the way she spoke to me: but this I will not allow ; I shall 
write to Messrs." Lawrence and Lang to-night tesend some one; also 
to pay whatever is owing. 

“ She has just come over and stroked my hair, and gone back to 
her chair again; 1 think she is a little more affectionate to me now; 
and oh! 1 am so anxious to get away to the sea air, that it may wake 
her out of this lethargy. I know it wdll; I am sure of it. We have 
got such cheerful rooms. The address, dear papa, is Arbutus Villa, 

Terrace, Worthing; please give it to Duncan, and tell him to 

send me each week a brace of grouse, a brace of black game, one 
or two hares, and any odd ptarmigan or snipe you may get; then 1 
will know that they are good. To-night we had supper together; 
alas! she ate scarcely anything. I asked if she would have a little 
wine— no; she seemed to have a horror of it; even to be frightened. 
She came round the table; and took me by the hand; and begged of 
me to be always with her. I said was not that w^hat I had come 
for? She said, with such a strange voice, ‘ 1 need help — I need 
help;’ and 1 answered that now everything was to be reversed, and 
that I was to be the mother to her, and to take charge of her. Then 
she cried a little; but I think she was pleased with me; and when I 
said that I wanted to write a letter, after we had finished, she said 
she would read until I had written the letter, and then that she 
wished to hear where 1 had been, and how I had lived in the High- 
lands. Perhaps in time 1 will persuade her to be affectionate to me; 
on my part, it will not be difficult that I should soon love her; for 
she is gentle, and to regard her fills one’s heart with pity. 1 had 
great terror that it might not be so. 

“ To-morrow, if it is possible, I think we will get aw^ay to Worth- 
ing; I am anxious to begin my guardianship. Perhaps by a middle- 
day train, if I have to buy some things for my mother. Or why 
not there, where we shall have plenty of time? 1 wish to see her 
away from the town— in clear, brisk air; then we shall have the 
long, quiet, beautiful days to become acquainted with each other. 
It is so strange, is it not, a mother and daugliter becoming acquainted 
with each other? But, since 1 am her guardian, I must not let her 
sit up too late; and so good night, dear, dear papa, from 
“ Your affectionate daughter, 

“ 'VoLANDE.” 

That was naturally the end of the letter; and yet she held it open 
before her for some time, in hesitation. And then she took her pen 
and added: “ 1 cannot tell you how glad it wmuld make me if you 
had time to write a long letter to me about Allt-nam-ba, and all the 
people there; for one cannot help looking back to the place where 
one has been happy." 


CHAPTER XXXVli. 

A BEGINNING. 

Despite all her hurrying however, Yolande did not manage to 
get away from London on the day following; it was not until early 
the next morning that she and her mother and the maid found 


irOLAl^DE. §33 

themselves finally in the train, and the j^reat city left behind for 
good. The weather was brilliant and shining around them; and the 
autumn-tinted woods were glorious in color. To these or any other 
passing object, Yolande, in her capacity of guardian, drew cheerful 
attention, treating the journey, indeed, as a very ordinary every-day 
affair; but the sad-eyed mother seemed hardly capable of regarding 
anything but her daughter — and that sometimes with a little bit of 
stealthy crying. 

“ Ah,” she said, in those strangely hollow tones, “ it is kind of 
you to come and let me see you for a little while.” 

” A little while? What little while, then?” said Yolande, with a 
stare. 

” Until 1 go back.” 

“Until you go back where, mother?” 

“Anywhere — away from you,” said the mother, regarding the 
girl with an affectionate and yet wistful look. “ It was in a dream 
that 1 came away from the house with you. You seemed calling 
me in a dream. But now I am beginning to wake. At the station 
there were two ladies; I saw them looking at us; and I knew what 
they were thinking. They were wondering to see a beautiful young 
life like yours linked to a life like mine; and they were right. I 
could see it in their eyes.” 

“ They would have been better employed in minding thei-r own 
business!” said Yolande, angrily. 

“No; they were right,” said her mother, calmly; and then she 
added, with a curious sort of smile: “ But I am going to be with 
you for a little while. I am not going away yet. I want to leani 
all about you, and understand you; then I shall know what to think 
when I hear of you afterward. You will have a happy life; I shall 
hear of you perhaps, and be proud and glad; I shall think of you 
always as young and happy and beautiful; and when you go back 
to your friends ” 

“ Dear mother,” said Yolande, “ I wish you would not talk non- 
sense. When I go back to my friends! I am not going back to any 
friends until you go back with me: do you understand that?” 

“ I?” said she; and for a second there was a look of fright on her 
face. Then she shook her head sacily. “ No, no. My life is 
wrecked and done for; yours is all before you— without a cloud, 
without a shadow. As for me, I am content. I will stay with you 
a little while; and get to know you; then I will go away — how could 
I live if I knew that 1 was the shadow on your life?” 

“ Well, 3^es, mother, you have got a good deal to learn about me,” 
said Yolande, serenely. “ It is very clear that you don-’t know 
what a temper I have, or you would not be so anxious to provoke 
me to anger. But please remember that it isn’t what you want, or 
what you intend to do— it is what I may be disposed to allow you to 
do. i have been spoiled all my life; that is one thing jou will have 
to learn about me. I always have my own way. You will find that 
out very soon; and then you will give over making foolish plans; 
or Blinking that it is for you to decide. Do you think 1 have stolen 
you away, and carried you into slavery, to let you do as you please? 
Not at all ; it is far from that. As soon as we get to Worthing I am 
going to get you a prettier bonnet than that — I know the shop per- 


YOLAJnDE. 


234 

fectly — I saw it the other day. ]5ut do you think I will permit you 
to choose the color? No; not at all! Not at all. And as for your 
going away, or going back, or going anywhere — oh, we will see 
about that, I assure you!” 

For the time being, at all events, the mother did not protest. She 
seemed more and more fascinated by the society of her daughter; 
and appeared quite absorbed in regarding the bright 5 ’’oung fresh 
face, and in listening with a strange curiosity for the slight traces of 
a foreign accent that remained in Yolande’s talking. As for the girl 
herself, she bore herself in the most matter-of-fact way. She would 
have no sentiment interfere. And always it was assumed that her 
mother was merely an invalid whom the sea air would restore to 
health; not a word was said as to the catise of her present condition. 

Worthing looked bright and cheerful on this breezy forenoon. 
The wind-swept yellow-gray sea was struck a gleaming silver here 
or there with floods of sunlight; the morning promenaders had not 
yet gone in to lunch; a band was playing at the end of the pier. 
When they got to the rooms, they found that every preparation had 
been made to receive them; and in the bay-window they discovered 
a large telescope which the little old lady said she had borrowed 
from a neighbor whose rooms were unlet. Y’olande managed every- 
thing — Jane being a helpless kind of creature; and the mother sub- 
mitted, occasionally with a touch of amusement appearing in her 
manner. But usually she was rather sad; and her eyes had an 
absent look in them. 

“Now let me see,” said Yolande, briskly, as they sat at lunch 
(Jane waiting on them). “ There is really so much to be done, that 
I don’t know where we should begin. Oh, yes, I do. First we will 
walk along to the shops and buy your bonnet. Then to a chemist’s 
for some scent for your dressing-bag. Then we must get glass 
dishes for flowers for the table— one round one for the middle, and 
two semicircles. Then when we come back the pony-carnage must 
be waiting for us; and we willygive you a few minutes to put on the 
bonnet, dear mother; and then we will go away for a drive into the 
country. Perhaps we shall get some wild flowers; if not, then, we 
will buy some when we come back ’’ 

“ Why should you give yourself so much trouble, Yolande?’’ her 
mother said. 

“Trouble? It is no trouble. It is an amusement — an occupa- 
tion. Without an occupation how can one live?’’ 

“ Ah, you are so full of life— so full of life,’’ the mother said, 
regarding her wistfully. 

“ Oh, I assure you,” said Yolande, blithel}", “that not many 
know what can be made of wild flowers in a room— if you have 
plenty of them. Not all mixed; but here one mass of color; and 
there another. Imagine, now that we w'ere thirty-three miles 
from Inverness; how could one get flowers except by going up the 
hillside and collecting them? That was an occupation that had a 
little trouble, to be sure!— it was harder work than going to buy a 
bonnet! But sometimes we were not quite dependent on the wild 
flowers; there was a dear, good woman living a few miles away— 
ah, she was a good friend to me— who used to send me from her 
garden far more than was right. And every time that I passed— 


\OLANDE. 


235 

another handful of flowers; more than that, perhaps some fresh 
vegetables all nicely packed up; perhaps a little basket of new-laid 
eggs; perhaps a pair of ducklings— oh, such kindness as was quite 
ridiculous from a stranger. And then when I come away, she goes 
to the lodge, and takes one of the girls with her, to see that all is 
right; and no question of trouble or inconvenience; you would think 
it was you who were making the obligation and giving kindness, 
not taking it. I must write to her when I have time. But I hope 
soon to hear how they are all going ori up there in the Highlands.” 

“Dear Yolatide,” said the mother, ‘‘why should you occupy 
yourself about me? Do your writing, I am content to sit in the 
same room. Indeed, I would rather listen to you talking about tbe 
Highlands than go out to get the bonnet or anything else.” 

‘‘ Why do 1 occupy myself about you?” said Yolande. “Be- 
cause I have brought you here to make you well; that is why. And 
you must be as much as possible out of doors — especially on .such a 
day as this, when the air is from the sea. Ah, we shall soon make 
you forget the London dinginess and the smoke. And you would 
rather not go for a drive, perhaps, when it is I who am going to 
drive you?” 

Indeed, she took the mastership into her own hand; and perhaps 
that was a fortunate necessity; for it prevented her thinking over 
certain things that happened to herself. Wise, grave-eyed, thought- 
ful, anl prudent, there was now little left in her manner of speech 
of the petulant and light-hearted Yolande of other days; and yet she 
was pleased to see that her mother was taking more and more inter- 
est in her; and perhaps sometimes— though she strove to forget the 
past altogether and only to keep herself busily occupied with the 
present — there was some vague and subtle sense of self-approval. 
Or was it self-approval? Was it not rather some dim kind of belief 
that if he who had appealed to her, if he who had said that he had 
faith in her, could now see her, he would say that she was doing 
well? But she tried to put these remembrances away. 

An odd thing happened when they were out. They had gone to 
the shop where Yolande had seen the bonnets; and she was so satis- 
fied with the one that she chose that she made her mother put it on 
ihen and there, and asked the milliner to send the other home. 
Then they went outside again; and not far off was a chemist’s shop. 

“Now,” said Yolande, “we will go and choose two scents for 
the bottles in the dressing-bag. One shall be white rose; and the 
other? What other?” 

“ Whichever you like best, Yolande,” said her mother submis- 
sively; her daughter had become so completel}’^ her guide and guar- 
dian. 

“ But it is for your dressing-bag, mother, not mine,” said Yo- 
lande. “ You must choose. You must come into the shop and 
choose.” 

“ Very well, then.” 

They walked to the shop; and Yolande glanced for a minute at 
the window and then went inside. But the moment they had got 
within the door — perhaps it was the odor of the place that recalled 
her to herself — the mother shrank back with a strange look of fear 
on her face. 


YOLAltDE. 

“ Yolande,” she said, ia a low, hurried voice, ‘1 will wait for 
you outside.” • 

‘‘But which is to be the other scent, mother?” 

'* I will wait for you outside,” said she, with her hand touching 
her daughter’s arm. ‘‘ I will wait for you outside.” 

Then Yolande seemed to comprehend what that dazed look of fear 
meant; and she was so startled that, even after her mother had left, 
she could scarce summon back enough self-possession to tell the 
shopman what she wanted. Thereafter she never asked her mother 
to go near a chemist’s shop. 

That same afternoon they went for a drive along some of the 
inland country lanes and as they soon found that the stolid, fat, 
and placid pony could safely be left under the charge of Jane, they 
got out wheneW they had a mind, to look at an old church or to 
explore banks and hedge-rows in search of wild flowers. Now this 
idle strolling, with occasional scrambling across ditches, was light 
enough work for one who was accustomed to climb the hills of Allt- 
nam-ba; but no doubt it was fatiguing enough to this poor woman, 
who, nevertheless, did her very best to prove herself a cheerful com- 
panion. But it was on this fatigue that Yolande reckoned. That 
was why she wanted her mother to be out all day in the sea air and 
the country air. What she was aiming at was a certainty of sleep 
for this invalid of whom she was in charge. And so she cheered 
her on to further exertion, and pretended an eagerness in this search 
for wild-flowers which was not very real (for ever, in the midst of it, 
some stray plant here or there would remind her of a herbarium far 
away, and of other days and other scenes), until at last she thought 
they had both done their duty, and so they got into the little carriage 
again and drove back to Worthing. 

That evening at dinner she amused her mother with a long and 
minute account of the voyage to Egypt, and of the friends who had 
gone with them, and of the life on board the dahabeah. The 
mother seemed peculiarly interested about Mr. Leslie; and asked 
many questions about him; and Yolande told her frankly how pleas- 
ant and agreeable a young fellow he was, and how well he and his 
sister seemed to understand each other, and so forth. She betrayed 
no embarrassment in expressing her liking for him; although, in 
truth, she spoke in pretty much the .same terms of Colonel Graham. 

” Mr. Leslie was not married, then?” 

” Oh, no.” 

” It was rather a dangerous situation for two young people,” tlie 
mother said, with a gentle smile. “It is a wonder you are not 
wearing a ring now.” 

“ What ring?” Yolande said, with a quick flush of color. 

“ An engagement-ring.” 

In fact, the girl was not wearing an engagement-ring. On com- 
ing to London she had taken it off and put it away; other duties 
claimed her now— that was what she said to herself. And now she 
was content that her mother should remain in ignorance of that por- 
tion of her past story. 

“ I have other things to attend to,” she said, briefly; and the sub-* 
ject was not continued. 

That day passed very succesafailly. The mother had shown not 


YOLANDE. 


237 

the slightest symptom of any craving for ei'.her stimulant or nar- 
cotic; nor any growing depression in consequence of being deprived 
of these— though Jack Melville had warned Yolande that both were 
probable. No; the languor from which she suffered appeared to be 
merely the languor of ill health; and, so far from becoming more 
depressed, she had become rather more cheerful — especially when 
they were wandering along the lanes in search of wild flowers. 
Moreover, when she went to bed (she and Yolande occupied a large 
double-bedded room) she very speedily fell into a sound, ouiet sleep. 
Yolande lay awake, watching her; but everything seemed right; 
and so by and by the girl’s mind began to wander away to distant 
scenes and to pictures that she had been trying to banish from her 
eyes. 

And if sometimes in this hushed room she cried silently to herself, 
and hid her face in the pillow so that no sob should awaken the 
sleeping mother? Well, perhaps that was only a natural reaction. 
The strain of all that forced cheerfulness had been terrible. Once 
or twice during the evening she had had to speak of the Highlands; 
and the effort on such occasions to shut out certain recollections and 
vain regrets and self-abasements was of itself a hard thing. And 
now that the strain was over, her imagination ran riot; all the old 
life up there, with its wonder and delight and its unknown pitfalls, 
came back to her; and all through it she seemed to hear a sad refrain 
— a couple of lines from one of Mrs. Bell’s ballads — that she could 
not get out of her head. 

Qnoth he, “ My bonny leddy, were ye sweet Jeanie Graham?” 

” Indeed, guid sir, but ye’ve guessed my very name.” 

They could not apply to her, but somehow there was sorrow in 
them; and a meeting after many years; and the trsged3' of two 
changed lives. How' could they apply to her? If there w’^as any 
<n - of whom she was thinking it ought to have been he to whom 
sue had plighted her troth. She had pul aside her engagement-ring 
for a season; but she was not thereby absolved from her promise. 
And yet it was not of him that she was thinking — it was of some 
one she saw only vaguely — but gray-haired and after many years — 
coming back to a wrecked existence — and her heart, that had a great 
yearning and pity and love in it. knew that it could not help— and 
what was there but a woman’s tears and a lifelong regret? That 
w’as a sad night. It was not the mother, it was the daughter, who 
passed the long sleepless hours in suffering. But with the morning 
Yolande had pulled herself together again. She was only a little 
pale — that w^as all. She was as cheerful, as brave, as high-spirited 
as ever. When did the band play? — they would walk out on the 
pier. But even Jane could see that this was not the Yolande who 
had lived at Ailt-uam-ba~with a kind of sunlight always on her 
face; and she wondered. 

Not that (lay but the next came the anxiously expected news from 
the Highlands. 

“ My darling Yolande, — Your letter has given me inexpressi- 
ble relief. I was loath to see you go. Above all, it seemed so cruel 
that you should go alone, and I remain here. But probably Mr. 
Melville was right; perhaps it may all turn out for the best; but it 


238 


YOLANDE. 


will be a long time before any one can saj' so; and as I think of 5^011 
in the meantime, it is with no great sense of satisfaction that I am 
conscious that I can do nothing to help you. 'But I rejoice that so 
far you have had no serious trouble; perhaps the worst is over, if 
that were so, then there might be a recompense to you for what you 
must be undergoing. It would be strange, indeed, if tlus should 
succeed after so many failures. It would make a great dilference to 
all our lives; sometimes I begin to think it possible, and then recol- 
lections of the past prove too strong. Let me know your opinion. 
Tell me everylh:ng. Even after all these years, sometimes I begin 
to hope, and to think of our having a home and a household after 
all. 

“ There is but little news to send you-. At the moment I am quite 
alone. Mr. Shortlauds has changed all his plans, and has gone 
south for a few days, finding that he can come back and remain 
with me until the 15th of October. Then you must tell me what 
you would have me do. Perhaps you will know better by that 
time. If you think the experiment hopeless, I trust you will have 
the honesty to say so; then I will take you for a run abroad some 
where, after your long waiting and nursing. 

The Master is in Inverness, I hear; probably it is business that 
detains him; otherwise I should have been glad of his company on 
the hill, now that Shortlands is away. But the shooting has lost all 
interest for me; when I come back in the evening there is no one 
standing at the door, and no one to sit at the head of the dinner- 
table. I shall be glad when the 15th of October comes; and then, if 
there is no prospect of your present undertaking proving successful, 
you and I will preen our feathers for the South. If they are going 
to bury you alive in these wilds subsequently, you and I must have 
at least one last swallow-flight. Not the Riviera this time; the 
Riviera is getting to be a combination of Bond Street and Piccadilly. 
Athens — what do you say? I remember the Grahams talking 
vaguely about their perhaps trying to spend a winter in Algiers; 
and pleasanter traveling companions you could not find anywhere; 
but even if we have to go alone, we shall not gi'umble much! 

“This reminds me that one part of your letter made me very 
angry — I mean about the expense of the dressing-bag, and your 
proposed economy at W orthing. I suppose it was those people at 
the chateau that put those ideas into your head ; but I wish you to 
understand that there is nothing so stupid as unnecessary economy 
for economy’s sake; and that when 1 wish you to begin cheese-par- 
ing I will tell you so. E^avagance is silly — and ill-bre.d,.too; but 
there is some such thing as knowing what one can fairly spend in 
proportion to one’s income; and when I wish you to be more mod- 
erate in your expenditure I will tell you. And, indeed, it is not at 
such a lime that you shoidd think of expense at all. If this experi- 
ment is likely to end as we wish — then we shall not be considering 
a few pounds or so. 

“ I think you will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Bell does not man 
age one whit better than you— how could she, when everything was 
perfect? But the situation is awkward. I imagined she was only 
coming here for a day or two — to set things going, as it were, under 
a new regime-, but the good woman shows no signs of departure, 


TOLANDE. 


239 


ami, indeed, she manages everything with such tact and good sense, 
and with such an honest, frank recognition of the facts of the case, 
that 1 am really afraid to hurt her and offend her by suggesting that 
she should not waste so much of her time up here. It was all very 
well with Mr. Melville — he was her hero, the master of the house, 
the representative of the family that she looked up to; but it is dif- 
ferent with me; and yet there is a kind of self respect in the way in 
which she strictly keeps to her ‘ station,’ that one does not like to 
interfere. I have thought of pointing out to her that my last house- 
keeper was a person called Yolande Winterbourne, and that she was 
in no wise so respectful in her manner; but then I thought it better 
to let the good woman have her own way; and with all her respect 
fulness there is, as you know, a frank and honest friendliness which 
tells you that she quite understands her own value in the world. 
She has, however, been so communicative as to unfold to me her 
great project of the bujdng back of Monaglen; and 1 must say it 
seems very ill advised of Mr. Melville, just when this project is about 
to be accomplished, to disai)pear and leave not even his address 
behind. All that Mrs. Bell knows is that, on the morning you left, 
he announced his intention of (;ros8ing over the hills to Kingussie, 
to catch the night train going south; and Duncan says he saw him 
going up by the Corrie-an-eich. You know’ what an undertaking 
that is. and the stories they tell about people having been lost in 
these solitudes: but, as Duncan says, there was not any one in thcij 
country wdio could cross the hills with less chance of coming to harm 
that Mr. Melville. IStill, he might have left the good woman his 
address; and she, it seems, did not consider it her 1 place ’ to ask.” 

At this point Yolande stopped— her brain bewildered, her heart 
beating wildly’. If he had crossed over the hills to catch the night- 
train to the south— wiiy, that w'as the train in wiiich she also was 
traveling from Inverness to London! Dad he been in the same train, 
then- -separated from her by a few carriages only — during the long 
darkness in wiiich she seemed to be leaving behind her youth, and 
hope, and almost the common desire of life? And wiiy? He had 
Sjioken to no one of his going away. Mrs. Bell had guessed that he 
might be going, from his preparations of the previous evening; but to 
leave on that very morning— to catch the very train in which she was 
sealed — perhaps to come all the w'ay’ to London with her; here was 
food for speculation and wmnderl Of course, it never occurred to 
her that he might have come to any harm in crossing the hills; she 
did not even think of that. He w’as as familiar with these corrics 
and slopes and streams as with the doorstep of the house at Gress. 
No; he had waited for the train to come along; perhaps she did not 
even look out from the window wdien they^ reached the station; he 
w’ould get into one of the carriages; and all through the long after- 
noon and evening, and on and through the blackness of the night, 
and in the gray of the morning, he was there. And perhaps at 
Euston Square, too? He might easily escape her notice in the crowd, 
if he wished to do so. Would he disappear into the wilderness of 
London? But he knew the name of the hotel she was going to— that 
had all been arranged between them; might he not by accident have 
passed along Albemarle Street on one or other of those days? Ah, 
if she had chanced to see him! —would not London have seemed less 


240 


irOLANI>E. 


lonely — would she not have consoled herself with the fancy that 
somewhere or other there was one watching over her and guarding 
her? A dream — a dream. If he were indeed there, he had avoided 
meeting her. He had gone away. He had' disappeared — into the 
unknown; and perhaps the next she should hear of him might be 
after many years, as of a gray-haired man going back to the place 
that once knew him, with perhaps some vague question on his lips* 
“ My bonny Uddy, were ye sweet Jeanie Oraham ? — though to whom 
he might address that question she scarcely dared to ask or think. 

She only looked over the remainder of the letter; her hurried 
fancies were wandering far away. 

“ So you see 1 have no news; although in my solitude this gossip 
seems to unite you with me for a time. The only extraordinary 
thing that I have seen or met with since you left we ran across the 
other right on coming home from'the shooting. We had been to the 
far tops after ptarmigan and white hares;, and got belated. Long 
before we reached home complete darkness overtook us; a darkness 
BO complete that, although we walked Indian file, Duncan leading, 
1 could not see Shortlands, who was just in front of me; 1 had to 
follow him by sound, sliding down among loose stones or jumping 
into peat-hags in a very happy-go-lucky fashion. Crossing the Allt- 
crom by the little swinging bridge you know of was also a pleasant 
performance; for there had been rain, and the waters were much 
swollen, and made a terrible noise in the dark. However, it was 
when we were over the bridge and making for the lodge that I 
noticed the phenomenon I am going to tell you about. I was trying 
to make out John IBhortlands’ legs in front of me when I saw on the 
ground two or three small points of white fire. I thought it strange 
for glowworms to be so high above the level of the sea; and I called 
the others back to examine these things. But now 1 found, as they 
were all standing in the dark, talking, that wherever you lifted your 
foot from the wet black peat, immediately afterward a large number 
of these pale points of clear fire appeared, burning for about a min- 
ute and then gradually disappearing. Some were larger and clearer 
than others— just as, you remember, on a phosphorescent night at sea 
there are individual big stars separate from the general rush of white 
as the steamer goes on. We tried to lift some of the points of light, 
but could not manage it; so I take it they were not glowworms or 
any other living creatures; but an emanation of gas from the peaty 
soil; only that, unlike the will-o’-the-wisp, they were quite stationary 
and burned with a clear white, or blue- white flame — the size of most 
of them not bigger than the head of a common pin, and sometimes 
about fifteen or twenty of them appearing where one foot had been 
pressed into the soft soil. Had Mr. Melville been at Gress 1 should 
have asked him about it; no doubt he has noticed this thing in hi.s 
rambles; but he has been away, as I say, and nobody about here has 
any explanation to offer. The shepherds say that the appearance of 
this phosphorescence, or electricity, or illuminated gas, or w^halever 
it is, foretells a change in the weather; but 1 have never yet met 
with anything in heaven or earth of which the shepherds did not say 
the same thing. But as .you, my dear Yolande, have not seen this 
phenomenon, and know absolutely nothing about it, you will be in 


YOLAiTDE. 241 

& position to furnish me with a perfectly consistent scientific theory 
about it, which 1 desire to have from you at your convenience. 

“ A hamper of game goes to you to-day— also a bunch of white 
♦rather from “ Your affectionate father, 

“ R. G. Winterbourne.” 

She dwelt over the picture here presented of his solitary life in the 
north; and she knew that now no longer were there happy dinner 
parties in the evening; and pleasant friends talking together; and no 
longer was there any need for Duncan — outside in the twilight — to 
play Mehille's Welcome Home. 


CHAPTER XXXVIll. 

AWAKING. 

Another day passed, Yolande doing her best to make the day go 
by briskly and pleasantly. They walked on the promenade or the 
pier; they drove away inland, through quaint little villages and quiet 
lanes; when the weather was wet they stayed indoors, and she read 
to her mother; or they rigged up the big telescope in the bay win- 
dow, to follow the slow progress of the distant ships. And the 
strange thing was that, as Yolande gradually perceived, her mother’s 
intellect seemed to grow clearer and clearer while her spirits grew 
more depressed. 

” 1 have been in a dream — I have been in a dream,” she used to 
say. ” I will not try to go back. Yolande, you must help me. 
You must give me your hand.” 

” You have been ill, mother; the sea air will make you strong 
again,” the girl said, making no reference to other matters. 

However, that studied silence did not last. On the evening of the 
fifth day of their stay at Worthing, Yolande observed that her mother 
seemed still more depressed and almost suffering; and she did all 
she could to distract her attention and amuse her. At last the poor 
woman said, looking at her daughter in a curious kind of way — 

” Yolande, did you notice, when 1 came away from the house with 
you, what I went back for a moment into my room?” 

” Yes, I remember you did.” 

” 1 will tell you now why I went back.” 

She put her hand in her pocket and drew out a small blue bottle, 
which she put on the table. 

” It was for that,” she said, calmly. 

A flush of color overspread the hitherto pale features of the girl; 
it was she who was ashamed and embarrassed ; and she said quickly— 

” Yes, I understand, mother— I know what it is— but now you will 
put it away— you do not want it any longer 

” 1 am afraid,” the mother said, in a low voice. ” Sometimes I 
have tried, until it seemed as if I was dying; and that has brought 
me to life again. Oh, I hope I shall never touch it again— 1 
want to be with you, walking by your side among the other people 
— and like them — like every one else ” 

” And so you shall, mother,” Yolande said; and she rose and got 
hold of the bottle. ‘‘ I am going to throw this away.” 


242 


YOLA.KDE. 


“ No, no, Yolande, it to me|” she said, but without any ex- 
citement. “ It is no use throwing it away. That would make me 
think of it. I would get more. I could not rest until 1 had gone 
to a chemist’s and got more — perhaps some time when you were not 
looking. But when it is there, I feel safe. 1 can put it away from 
me. 

“ Very well, then,” said Yolande, and she went to the fireplace, 
and placed the bottle conspicuously on the mantel-shelf. Then she 
went back to her mother. ” It shall remain there, mother — as some- 
thing you have no further need of. That is done with now. It was 
a great temptation when you were living in lodgings in a town, not 
in good air; and you were very weak and ill; but soon you will be 
strong enough to get over your fits of faintness or depression without 
that." She put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. ” It is for my 
sake that you have put it away?” 

In answer she took her daughter’s hand in both hers, and covered 
it with kisses. 

‘‘ Yes. yes. yes! I have put it away, Yolande, for your sake. I 
have pul it away forever now. But you have a litile excuse for me? 
You cto not think so hardly of me as the others? I have been near 
dying — and alone. I did not know I had such a beautiful daughter 
— coming to take care of me, too ! A nd I don’t want you to go away 
now — not for a while, at least. Stay with me for a little time — until 
— until .1 have got to be just like the people we meet out walking — 
just liae every one else — and then I shall have no fear of being alone 
— I shall never, never touch that." 

She glanced at the bottle on the mantel-shelf with a sort of horror. 
She held her daughter’s hand tight. And Yolande kept by her until, 
not thinking it was prudent to make too much of this little incident, 
she begged her mother to come and get her things on for another short 
stroll before tea. 

Toward the evening, however, it was clear that this poor woman 
was 8ufl:’ering more and more, although she endeavored to put a brave 
face on it, and only desired that Yolande should be in the room with 
her. At dinner, she took next to nothing; and Yolande, on her own 
responsibility, begged to be allowed to send for some wine for her. 
But no. She seemed to think that there was something to be got 
through, and she would go throuah with it. Sometimes she went to 
the window and looked out — listening to the sound of the sea in the 
darkness. Then she would come back and sit down by the fire, and 
ask Yolande to read to her — this, that or the other thing. But what 
she most liked to have read and re-read to her was “ A Dream of 
Fair Women;” and she liked to have Yolande standing by the fire- 
place so that she could regard her. And sotrietimes the tears would 
gather in her eyes, when the girl came to the lines about Jepthah’s 
daughter : 

• emptied of all joy. 

Leaving the dance and song. 

Leaving the olive-garden far below, 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

^ * The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow, 

Beneath the battled tower. 


YOLAN^DK 


243 


Tho wliite oloiid swam over us. Anotl 
We heard the lion roarinf^ from liis den; 

We saw the larg’e white stars I'ise one by one 
Or, from the darken’d glen, 

Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 

And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

“ It was not fair— it was not fair,” she murmured. 

” What, mother?” 

” To send you here.” 

“Where ought I to be then,” she asked, proudly, “ except by 
your side.” 

“You? Your young life should not be sacrificed to mine. Why 
did they ask you? 1 should thank God, Yolande, if you were to go 
away this evening — now — if you were to go away, and be happy, 
with your youth, and beauty, and kind friends— that is the life fit 
for you— — ” 

“ But i am not going, mother.” 

“ Ah, you don’t know — you don’t know,” the other said, with a 
kind of despair coming over her. “I am ill, Yolande. I am 
wretched and miserable ” 

“ The more reason I should stay, surely!” 

“ I wish you would go away, and leave me. I can get back to 
London. What I have been thinking of is beyond me. 1 am too 
ill. But you — you— I shall always think of you as moving through 
the world like a princess — in sunlight ” 

“ Dear mother,” said Yolande, firmly, “ 1 think we said we were 
going to have no more nonsense. 1 am not going to leave you. And 
what you were looking forward to is quite impossible. If you are 
ill and suffering now, 1 am sorry — I would gladly bear it for your 
sake. 1 have had little trouble in the world; 1 would take your 
share. But going away from you I am not. So you must take 
courage, and hope; and some day— ah, some day soon you will be 
glad.” 

“ But if I am restless to-night,” said she, glancing at her daughter 
uneasily, “ and walking up and down, it will disturb you.” 

“ What does it matter?” said Yolande, cheerfully. 

“ You might get another room?” 

“ I am not going into any other room— do you think 1 will.for- 
sake my patient?” 

“ Will you leave the light burning, then?” 

,“ If you wish it — yes; but not high, for you must sleep,” 

“ But when they were retiring to rest the mother begged that the 
little blue bottle should be placed on the bedroom chimney-piece; 
and the girl hesitated. 

“ Why, mother, why? You surely would not touch it!” 

“ Oh, 1 hope notl 1 hope not! But 1 shall know it is near— if I 
am like to die!” 

“You must not fear that, mother. I will put the bottle on the 
chimney-piece, if you like; but you need not even think of it. That 
is more likely to cause your death than anything else. And you 
would not break your promise to me?” 

She pressed her daughter’s hand— that was all. 


YOLANCE. 


244 

Yolatide did not go quickly to sleep; for she knew that her molliel* 
was suffering— the labored sighs from time to time told her as much. 
She lay and listened to the wash of the sea along the shingle, and 
to the tramp of the last wayfarers along the pavement. She heard 
the people of the house go up stairs to bed. And then, by and by, 
the stillness of the room, and the effects of the fresh air, and the 
natural healthiness of youth combined to make her drowsy, and 
rather against her inclination, her eyes slowly closed. 

She was woke by a moan— as of a soul in mortal agony. But 
even in her alarm she did not start up; she took time to recover her 
senses And if the poor mother were really in such suffering, would 
it not be better for her to lie as if she were asleep? No appeal could 
be made to her for any relaxation of the promise that liad been given 
her. 

Then she became aware of a stealthy noise; and a strange terror 
took possession of her. She opened her eyes ever so slightly — glim- 
mering through the lashes only — and there she saw that her worst 
fears were being realized. Her mother had got out of bed and 
stolen across the room to the sideboard in the parlor, returning with 
a glass. Yolande, all trembling, lay and watched. She was not 
going to interfere — it was not part of her plan ; and you may be 
sure she had contemplated this possibility before now. And very 
soon it appeared why the poor woman had taken the trouble to go 
for a glass; it was to measure out the smallest quantity that she 
thought would alleviate her anguish. She poured a certain quantity 
of the black-looking fluid into the glass; then she regarded it, as if 
with hesitation; then she deliberately poured back one drop, two 
drops, three drops; and drank the rest at a gulp. Then, in the same 
stealthy fashion, she took the glass to the parlor and left it there; 
and crept silently back again and into bed. 

Yolande rose. Her face was pale; her lips tirm. She did not look 
at her mother; but, just as if she were assuming her to be asleep, she 
quietly went out of the room and presently returned with a glass in 
her hand. She went to the chimney-piece. Very well she knew 
that her mother's eyes were fixed on her, and intently watching her; 
and, as she poured some of that dark fluid into the glass, no doubt she 
guessed the poor woman was imagining that this was an experiment 
to see what had been taken out of the bottle. But that was not 
quite Yolande’s purpose. When she had poured out, as nearly as 
she could calculate, the same quantity that her mother had taken, 
she turned her face to the light and deliberately drank the contents 
of the glass. It was done in a second; there was a sweet, mawkish, 
pungent taste in the mouth, and a shiver of disgust as she swallowed 
the thing; then she calmly replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece. 

But the mother had sprung from her bed with a wild shriek, and 
caught the girl by both hands. 

" Yolande, Yolande, what have you done!” 

” What is right for you, mother, is right for me,” she said, in 
clear and seltled tones. “ It is how 1 mean to do always!” 

The frantic grief of this poor creature was pitiable to witness. 
She flung her arms round her daughter, and drew her to her, and 
wept aloud, and called down vengeance upon herself from Heaven. 
And then, in a passion of remorse, she flew at the bottle that was 


YOLANDE. 


245 

standing there, and would have hurled it into the fireplace, had not 
Yolande (whose head was beginning to swim already), interposed, 
calmly and firmly. She took the bottle from her mother’s hand and 
replaced it. 

“No; it must remain there, mother. It must stand thereuntil 
you and I can bear to know that it is there, and not to wish for it.” 

Even in the midst of her wild distress and remorse there was one 
phrase in this speech that had the effect of silencing the mother 
altogether. She drew back, aghast; her face white; her e 3 ’^e 8 staring 
with horror. 

“You and 1?’’ she repeated. “You and I? You— to become 
like— like ’’ 

“ Yes,’’ said Yolande. “ What is right for you is right for me; 
that is what I mean to do — always. Now, dear mother,’’ she added, 
in a more languid way, “ 1 will lie down— I am giddy ’’ 

She sat down on the edge of the bed, putting her hand to her fore- 
head, and rested so awhile; then insensibly after a time she drooped 
down on to the pillow — although the frightened and frantic mother 
tried to get an arm round her waist; and very soon the girl had re- 
lapsed into perfect insensibility. 

And then acr}’^ rang through the house like the cry of the Egyptian 
mothers over the death of their first born. The poison seemed to 
act in directly opposite ways in the brains of these two women — the 
one it plunged into a profound stupor; the other it drove into frenzy. 

She threw herself on the senseless form and wound her arms round 
the girl, and shrieked aloud that she had murdered her child— her 
beautiful daughter — she was dying— dead — and no one to save her 
— murdered by her own mother! The little household was roused at 
once. Jane came rushing in, terrified, The landlad^y was the first 
to recover her wits, and instantly she sent a housemaid for the doctor. 
Jane being a strong-armed woman, dragged the h 3 'sierical mother 
back from the bed, and bathed her 3 mung mistress’s forehead with 
eau-de-cologne — it was all the poor kind creature could think of. 
Then they tried to calm the mother somewhat; for she was begging 
them to give her a knife, that she might kill herself and die with 
her child. 

The doctor’s arrival quieted matters somewhat ; and he had scarcely 
been a minute in the room when his eyes fell on the small blue bottle 
on the mantelpiece. That he instantly got hold of; the label told 
him what were the contents; and when he went back to the bedside 
of the girl~who was lying insensible, in a heav 3 ^ breathing sleep, 
her chest laboring as if against some weight— he had to exercise 
some control over the mother to get her to show him precisely the 
quantity of the fluid that had been taken. The poor woman seemed 
beside herself. She dropped on her knees before him, in a passion 
of tears, and clasped her hands. 

“ Save her — save her! — sa^^^e my child to me! —if 3 mu can give her 
back to me I will die a hundred times before harm shall come to her 
—my beautiful child, that came to me like an angel, with kindness, 
and open hands— and this is what I have done!’’ 

“ Hush, hush,’’ said the doctor, and he took her by the hand, and 
gently raised her. “ Now you must be quiet. I am not going to 
wake your daughter. If that is what she took, she will sleep it o3; 


246 


YOLAl^DE. 


she is young, and I should say healthy. 1 am going to let nature 
woik the cure; though 1 fear the young lady will have a bad head- 
ache in the morning. It is a most mischievous thing to have such 
drugs in the house. You are her maid, 1 understand?” he said, 
turning to Jane. 

” Yes, sir.” 

” Ah. Well, I think for to night you had better occupy that 
other bed there; and the young lady’s mother can have a bed.else- 
where. I don’t think you need fear anything— except a headache 
in the morning. Let her sleep as long as she may. In the morning 
let her go for a drive in the fresh air, if she is too languid to walk. ” 

But the mother cried so bitterly on hearing of this arrangement 
that they had to consent to her retaining her place in the room, 
while Jane said she could make herself comfortable enough in an 
arm-chair. As for the poor mother, she did not go back to her own 
bed at all; she sat at the side of Yolande's bed— at the foot of it, lest 
the sound of her sobbing should disturb the sleeper; and sometimes 
she put her hand ever so lightly on the bedclothes, with a kind of 
pat, as it were, while the tears were running down her face. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

*‘o’ BYGANE DAYS AND ME.” 

The Master of Lynn was walking along Church Street, Inverness, 
leisurely smoking his morning cigar, when a small boy from the hotel 
overtook him, and handed him a letter. He glanced at the hand- 
writing, and saw it was from his sister; so he put it in his pocket 
without opening it. Then he went on and into Mr. Macleay’s shop. 
This was a favorite lounge of his. For not only was it a valuable 
museum of natural history— all kinds of curiosities and rarities being 
sent thither to be preserved— but also, to any one with sufficient 
knowledge, it afforded a very fair report as to what was going on in 
the different forests. More than that, it was possible for one to form 
a shrewd guess as to the character of some of the people then wan- 
dering about the Highlands — the sort of sportsmen, for example, 
who Si nt to be stuffed such rare and remarkable birds as bannets, 
kilti wakes, and skarts, or who wished to have all the honors of a 
glass case and a painted background conferred on a three pound 
trout. It was not difficult (as he sat on the counter or strolled about) 
lo imagine the simple joy with which these trophies had been secured 
and carefully packed and sent awa}’^ for preservation; while, on the 
other hand, some great stag’s head — a magnificent and solitary prize 
— perhaps awoke a touch of envy. The good-natured proprietor of 
the establishment, busy with his own affairs, let this young man do 
pretty much what he liked in the place; and so it was that the 
Master, having had a look at the latest specimens of the skill of the 
workshop, took out his sister’s letter and read it, and then begged 
for a sheet of paper and the loan of a pen. He thought he might 
just as well finish his cigar here, and answer his sister at the same 
time. 


YOLANDE. 247 

He wrote as follows : 

“ Inverness, September 29. 

Dear Polly, — 1 wish you would be pleased to moderate the 
rancor of your tongue; there is quite enough of that commodity at 
Lynn. Whoever has told you of the latest row has probably not 
overstepped the truth; but isn’t it a blessed dispensation of Provi- 
dence that one can obtain a liltle peace at the Station Hotel? How- 
ever, that is becoming slow. 1 wish I knew where Jack Melville is; 
I would propose a little foreign travel. For one thing, 1 certainly 
don’t mean to go back to Lynn until Mr. Winterbourne has left Allt- 
nam-ba; of course, he must see very well that the people at the 
Towers have cut him; and no doubt he understands the reason; and 
he might ask, don’t you see; and very likely he might get angry and 
indignant (I shouldn’t blame him), and then he might ask Yolande 
to break off the engagement. Such things have happened before. 
But you needn’t get wild with me. 1 don’t seek to break off the 
engagement; certainly not; if that is what they are aiming at they 
will find me just as pertinacious as you were about Graham (you 
needn’t assume that you have all the obstinacy in the world); and 
although I’m not too squeamish about most things, still, I’m not go- 
ing to break my word simply because Auntie Tab doesn’t like Mr. 
Winterbourne’s politics. 

“ Now there’s a chance for you, Miss Polly. Why don’t you set 
to work to make the leopard change his spots? You think you can 
talk anybody over. Why don’t you talk over Mr. Winterbourne 
into the paths of virtue and high Toryism? 1 don’t see why it 
should be so difficult. Of course he’s violent enough in the House; 
but that’s to keep in with his constituents; and to talk with him 
after a day’s shooting you wouldn’t guess he had any politics at all. 
I’d bet a sovereign he would rather gel a royal than "be made a cabi- 
net minister. Y'ou’d much better go and coax him into the paths of 
the just than keep getting into rages with me. Y'ou talk as if it was 
you that wanted to marry Y'olande; or rather, as if it was you who 
were going to buy the Corrievreak side from Sir John, and couldn’t 
wait for the conveyancing to be done. Such impetuosity isn’t in ac- 
cord with your advancing years. The fact is, you haven’t been hav- 
ing your fair dose of flirtation lately, and you’re in a bad temper. 
But why with me? I didn’t ask the people to Inverstroy. 1 can 
see what sort of people they are by the cart-load of heads Graham 
has sent here (1 am writing in Macleay’s shop). If ever i can afford 
to keep our forest in my own hands there won’t be anything of that 
kind going on — no matter who is in the house. 

“ And why should you call upon me for the explanation of the 
‘mystery’? What mystery is involved in Y'olande’s going south? 
Her father, I understand, leaves on the 15th of October; and 1 am 
not surprised that nothing has been said about a lease of the place. 
Of course. Winterbourne must understand. But in the south, my 
dear Polly, if you wquld only look at the reasonable aspect of 
affairs, we may all of us meet on less embarrassing terms; and I for 
one shall not be sorry to get away for the winter from the society of 
Tabby & Co. Yolande and I have not quarreled in the least; on 
that point you may keep your hair smooth. But I am not at all sure 
that I am not bound in honor to tell her how I am placed; and what 


VOLAKDE. . 


248 

treatment in the future — or rather what no treatment — she may ex- 
pect from my affectionate relatives. Of course it cannot matter to 
her. She will be independent of them — 1 also. But I think I ought 
to let her know; so that she will not be surprised at their silence; and 
of course if she resents their attitude to her father (as is very likely) 
— well, that is their fault, not mine. 1 am not going to argue any 
more about it; and as for anything like begging for their patronage 
or sufferance of Yolande, that is entirely out of the question. I will 
not have it; and 1 have told you so before; so there may just as well 
be an end to your lecturing. I am a vertebrate animal. 

“ Yolande is at Worthing— not in Loudon, as you seem to think, 
I don’t know her address; but 1 have written to Allt-nam-ba for it 
— 1 believe she left rather in a hurry. No; 1 sha’n’t send it to you; 
for you would probably only make mischief by interfering; and in- 
deed it is not with her that any persuasion is necessary. Persuasion? 
— it’s a little common sense that is necessary! But that kind of 
plant doesn’t flourish at the Towers — I never heard of Jack Melville 
getting it for his collection ot dried weeds. 

“ Well, good-by. Don’t tear your hair, 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“ Archie. 

** P.S. — It is very kind of you to remind me of baby’s birthday; 
but how on earth do you expect me to know what to send it? A 
rocking-horse, or a Latin Grammar, or what?” 

He leisurely folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed 
it; then he turned to have a further chat with Mr. Macleay about 
the various triumphs of the taxidermic art standing around. Several 
of these were in the window; and he was idly regarding them when 
he caught sight— through the panes — of some one passing by out- 
side, For a second he s(iemed to pause, irresolute; then he quickly 
said good morning to Mr. Macleay, went outside, threw away his 
cigar, and followed the figure that he had seen passing the window. 
It was that of a young woman, neatly dressed; indeed, it was no 
other than Shena Van— though probably Janet Stewart had acquired 
that name when she was younger, for now she could not strictly be 
described as fair, though her hair was of a light brown and her eyes 
of a deep and exceedingly pretty blue. 

” Good morning. Miss Stewart,” said he, overtaking her. 

The young lady turned quickly, perhaps with a slight touch of 
alarm as well as of surprise in her look. 

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Leslie,” said she, with a certain re- 
serve— not to say coldness — of manner; though the sound of her 
speech, with its slight accent, was naturally gentle and winning. 

” 1 had no idea you were in Inverness,” said he, ”1 just caught 
a glimpse of you while 1 was in Macleay ’s shop, Yihjl it is a long 
time since I have seen you now.” 

She was a little embarrassed and nervous, probably desirous of 
getting away, and yet not wishing to be rude. 

‘‘lam often in Inverness, now,” she said, with her eyes averted, 
‘‘ since my sister was married.” 

‘‘ Are you going to the steamer?” he asked, for she carried a 
small parcel in her hand. 


YOLANDE. 249 

“ Yea,” said she, with some hesitation. ” I— 1 was thinking of 
walking to the steamer. 

‘‘ Then 1 suppose I may go as far with you,” said he, ” for I have 
a letter that I want the clerK to have sent on to Inverstroy.” 

She glanced quickly up and down the street; but he did not give 
her time to say yea or nay; and then, with something of silence and 
resentment on her part, they set out together. It was a very pleas- 
ant and cheerful morning; and their way was out into the country; 
for Miss Stewart’s destination was that lock on the Caledonian Canal 
from which the steamer daily sails for the south. Nevertheless the 
young lady did not seem over well pleased. 

At first they talked chiefly about her friends and relatives — he ask- 
ing the questions and she answering with somewhat few words, and 
she was carefid to inform him that now she was more than ever 
likely to be away from Inverness-shire, for her brother had recently 
been elected to one of the professorships at Aberdeen, and he had 
taken a house there, and he liked to have her in the house, because 
of looking after things. She gave him to understand that there was 
a good deal of society in the ancient city of Aberdeen ; and that the 
young men of the University were anxious to visit at her brother’s 
house. 

‘‘It is a natural thing,” said pretty Shena V^n, with a touch of 
pride in her tone, ” for the young men to be glad to be friends with 
my brother; not only because he is one of the professors, but be- 
cause he was very distinguished at Edinburgh, and at Heidelberg 
too — very distinguished indeed.’ 

‘‘ Oh, yes; I know that,” said the Master of Lynn, warmly. ‘‘ I 
have heard Jack Melville speak of him. I dare say your father is 
very proud of his success.” 

‘‘Indeed, I think we are all rather proud of it,” said Miss 
Stewart. 

But when they had crossed the bridge over the wide and shallow 
waters of the Ness, and were getting away from the town into the 
quietude of the country, he endeavored to win over his companion 
to something more of friendliness. He was a gentle-spoken youth; 
and this coldness on the part of his ancient comrade he seemed to 
consider unfair, 

‘‘ We used to be great friends,” said he, ” but I suppose you have 
forgotten all that. I suppose you have forgotten the time when Shena 
Van was reaching out for the branch of a rowan-tree and fell into 
the burn?” 

She blushed deeply; but there was the same cold reserve in her 
manner as she said — 

‘‘ That was a long time ago.” 

‘‘ Sometimes.” said he, with a sort of gentleness in his look, ‘‘ I 
wish your father had never gone away to Strathaylort ; you and I 
used to be gi-eat friends at one time.” 

” My father is very well pleased with Strathaylort,’* said Miss 
Stewart, ‘‘ and so are we all; for the manse is larger; and we have 
many more friends in Strathaylort. And the friends we left — well, I 
suppose they can remember us when they wish to remember us.” 

This wasVather pointed; but he took no notice of it— -he was so 
anxious to win his companion over to a more conciliatory mood, 


250 


YOLAKDE. 


“And are you as fond of reading poetry as ever?” said he, re- 
garding her — but always her eyes were averted, 

“ Sometimes I read poetry as I read other things,” she said, “ but 
with my sister in Inverness and my brother in Aberdeen, I am very 
often on visits now. ” 

“ Do you remember how you used to read ‘ Horatius ’ aloud — on 
the hill above Corrie-an-eicii? And the bridge below was the bridge 
that the brave Horatius kept; and you seemed to see him jump into 
the Allt-cr6m, not the Tiber at all; and I am quite sure when you 
held out your finger and pointed— -when 

he saw on Palatinus 
The white porch of his home 

— you were looking at the zinc-roofed coach-house at Allt-nam- 
ba.” 

“ I was very silly then,” said Shena Van, with red cheeks. 

“ And when you were Boadicea, a fiock of sheep did very well as 
an army for you to address; only the collies used to think you were 
mad.” 

“ 1 dare say they were right. ” 

“ Do you remember the IS word Chant of Thorstein Raudi, and 
my bringing you a halberd from the Towers? ‘ Might Giver! I 
kiss thee’ — ‘Joy Giver! 1 kiss ihee ’ — ‘Fame Giver! 1 kiss 
thee’? ” 

“ Indeed you have a wonderful recollection.” said Miss Stewart. 
“ 1 should think it was time to forget such folly. As one grows up 
there are more serious things to attend to. I am told ” — and here, for 
the first time, she turned her beautiful dark blue eyes to him, but not 
her face; so that she was loolfing at him rather askance, and in a 
curious, interrogative, and at the same time ha If -combative fashion — 
“lam told that you are about to be married.” 

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed; an^J^e did not meet those 
too searching eyes. 

“ As 3;ou say, Shena, life turns out to have serious duties, and not 
to be quite like what one dreams about when one is young,” he ob- 
served, somewhat vaguely. “That can’t prevent your remember- 
ing other days with a good deal of affection ” 

“But you must let me congratulate you, Mr. Leslie,” said she, 
sharply bringing him to his senses. “ And if the wedding is to be 
at Lynn, I am sure my father would be glad to come over from 
Strathaylort.” There could be nothing further said on this rather 
awkward subject just at the moment, for they had arrived at the 
steamer, and he had to go and hunt out the clerk to intrust him 
with those small commissions. Then he rejoined Miss Stewart, and 
set out for the town again; but, while she was quite civil and 
friendly in a formal fashion, he could not draw her into any sort of 
conjoint regarding of their j^outhful and sentimental days. Nay, 
more, when they got back to the bridge, she intimated, m the gen- 
tlest and most respectful way, that she" would rather go through the 
town alone; and so he was forced to surrender the cruel solace of her 
companionship. 

“ Good-by, Shena J” said he, and he held her baud for a moment. 


YOLANBE. 251 

“ Good morning, Mr. Leslie,” said she, without turning her e^TS 
toward him. 

Then he walked away by the side of the river, with a general sense 
of being aggrieved settling down on him. Whichever way he 
turned, people seemed only disposed to thwart and controvert him. 
Surely there was no harm in being on friendly terms with Shena 
VSn, and in reminding her of the days when he and she were boy 
and girl together? If he had jilted her, she would have good 
grounds for being vexed and angry; but he had not. Nothing in 
that direction had ever been spoken of between them. It is true he 
had at one time been very much in love with her; and although he 
had but little romance in his character (that being an ingredient not 
likely to be fostered by the air of Oxford, or by the society of the 
young officers of the Seaforth Highlanders), still the glamour of love 
had for, the moment blinded him, and he had seriouslV contemplated 
asking her to be his wife. He had argued with himself that this 
was no stage case of a noble lord weeding a village maiden; but the 
son of an mmost penniless peer marrying a well-accomplished young 
lady of perfectly respectable parentage, a young lady whose beauti- 
ful qualities of mind were known only to a few— only to one, per- 
haps, who had discovered them by looking into the magic mirror of 
a pair of strangely dark and clear blue eyes. The infatuation was 
strong — for a time; but when pretty Mrs. Graham came to learn it, 
there was trouble. Now the Master of Lynn detested trouble. Be- 
sides, his sister’s arguments in this case were terribly cogent. She 
granted that Shena Van might be everything he said, and quite en- 
titled, by her intelligence and virtues and amiabilities of character, 
to become the future mistress of Lynn Towers. But she had not a 
penny. And Was all the labor that had been bestowed on freeing 
the estate from its burdens to be thrown away? Were the Leslies 
to remain in those pinched circumstances that prevented their taking 
their proper place in the country, to say nothing of London? Mrs. 
Graham begged and implored; there was some distant and awful 
thunder on the part of his lordship; and then Archie Leslie (who 
hated fuss) began to withdraw himself from the fatal magnetism of 
those dark blue eyes. Nothing had been said; Miss Stewart could 
not complain. But the beautiful blue eyes had a measure of 
shrewdness in them: she may have guessed; nay, more— she may 
have hoped, and even cherished her own little romantic dreams of 
affection. Be that as it may, the young Master of Lynn gave way 
to those entreaties, to that warning of storm. When his sister said 
he was going to make a fool of himself, he got angry; but at the 
same time he saw as clearly as she that Lynn was starved for want 
of money. And although love’s young dream might never return 
in all its freshness of wonder and longing, still there were a large 
number of pretty and handsome young women in this country, some 
one of whom (if her eyes had not quite the depth and clearness of 
the eyes of Shena VSn) might look very well at the head of the din- 
ner table at Lynn Towers. And so for a time he left Ljmn, and 
went away to Edinburgh ;^nd if his disappointment and isolation 
had driven him into composing a little song with the refrain, 

O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go 


252 


YOLANDE. 


—that was only the last up-flickering flame from the dust and ashes 
of the extinguished romance; and the Master of Lynn had done 
everything that was required of him, and had a fair right to expect 
that his relatives would remember that in the future. 

And now it can be well understood how, as he walked alone along 
the shores of the wide river, he should feel that lie had been ill 
treated. Not even Janet Stewart’s friendsnip was left to him. He 
had looked once more into those blue eyes; aud he could remember 
them shining with laughter or dilated with an awful majesty, as 
Boadicea addressed an army of sheep, or perhaps softening a little in 
farewell when he was going away to Oxford; but nowMthere was 
nothing but coldness. She did not care to recall the old days. And, 
indeed, as he walked on aud out into the country, some other verses 
that he had learned from Shena VS^n in those bygone days began lo 
come into his head; and he grew in a way to compassionate himself, 
and to think of himself in future years as looking back uplbn his 
youth with a strange and pathetic regret— mingled with some other 
feelings. 

Oh, mind ye, love, how oft we left 
The deavin, dinsome towm, 

To wander by the green burn-side 
And hear its water croon? 

The simmerleaves hung ower our heads, 

The flowers burst round our feet. 

And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood 
The throssil whistled sweet. 
****** 

Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 

I’ve never seen your face, nor heard 
The music o’ your tongue; 

But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dee. 

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
O’ bygane daj’s and me ! 

— these were some of the lines he remembered (they were great favor- 
ites of Shena Van in former times); but instead of this compassion- 
ating of himself by proxy, as it were, leading him to any gentleness 
of feeling, it only made him the more bitter and angry. “ I have 
had enough of this — 1 have had enough of it,” he kept repeating to 
himself. ” Very few men I know have kept as straight as 1 have. 
They’d better look out. L have had just about enough ot this.” 

That evening he dined with the oflicersat Fort George, and drank 
far more wine than he usually dia— for he was very abstemious iu 
that direction. After dinner, he proposed unlimited loo; but more 
moderate counsels prevailed, and the bamiliar and innocent sixpenny 
Nap. was agreed upon. But even at this mdld performance you can 
lose a fair amount if you persistently ‘‘ go Nap ” on almost any sort 
of a hand that turns up. 


CHAPTER XL. 

' A GUESS. 

Some- well-known pieces of writing have described to us the ec- 
static visions vouchsafed to the incipient opium-eater; and these, or 
some of these, may be a faithful enough record. At all events, Yq 


I'OLANDE. 


25S 

lande’s first and only experience was of a very different character. 
All through that teriible night one horror succeeded another; and 
always she felt as if she were bound and gagged — that she could 
neither flee away from those hideous things nor shriek out her fear 
and cry for aid. First she was in a vast forest of impenetrable 
gloom; it was night, and yet there was a grayness in the open 
glade; there was no sky visible; she was alone. Then down one of 
these glades came a slow procession — figures walking two by two; 
and at first she thought they were monks, but as she came nearer 
she could see that within each cloak and hood there was a skeleton, 
with eyes of white fire. They took no heed of her- she could not 
move; in the awful silence she beheld them range themselves behind 
the trunks of the great oaks, and although they were now invisible 
it appeared to her that she could still sec their eyes of fire, and that 
they were gazing on the figure of a woman that now drew near. 
The woman was wringing her hands; her hair was disheveled; she 
looked neither to the right nor to the left. And then, as she passed, 
the specters came out two by two, and formed a crowd and followed 
her; they pressed on her and surrounded her, though she did not 
seem to see them; it was a doom overtaking her; the night grew 
darker; a funeral song was heard far away — not as from any open- 
ing heavens, but within the black hollows of the wood — and then 
the ghastly pageant disappeared. 

Presently she was in a white world of snow and ice; and a frantic 
despair had seized her, for she knew that she was drifting a way from 
the land. This way and that she tried to escape; but always she 
came to a blue impassable chasm, she tried to spring from one side 
to the other, but something held her back; .she could not get away. 
There was a fire-mountain there — the red flames looking so strange 
in the middle of the white world; and the noise of the roaring of it 
was growing fainter and more faint as she floated away on this 
moving ice. The sea that she was entering — she could see it far 
ahead of her— was black; but a thin gray mist hung over it; and 
she knew that once she was within that mist she would see nothing 
more, nor be heard of more, for ever and ever. She tried no longer 
to escape; horror had paralyzed her, she wanted to call aloud for 
help, but could not. Denser and denser grew the mist; and now 
the black sea was all around her; she was as one already dead; and 
when she tried to think of those she was leaving forever, she could 
not remember them. Her friends? — the people she knew’?— she 
could remember nothing. This vague terror and hopelessness filled 
her mind; otherwise it w’as a blank; she could look, but she could 
not think— and now the bleak waters had reached almost to her feet, 
and around her w’ere the impenetrable folds of air so that she could 
no longer see. And so she passed from one vision of terror to an- 
other all through the long night; until in the gray of the morning 
she slowly awoke to a sort of half-stupefied consciousness. She had 
a head.-rche, so frightful that at first she could scarcely open her 
eyes; hut she did not mind that; she was overjoyed that she could 
convince herself of her escape from those hideous phantoms, and of 
' eing in the actual living world. Then she began to recollect. 

“Ought of what she had done— perhaps with a little touch of 
's of something that he might approve, if ever he should 


YOLANDT^l. 


m 

come 1o know. Then, though her head yas? throbbing so dreadfully, 
she cautiously opened her eyes to look around. 

No sooner had she done so than Jane, who was awake, stole noise- 
lessly to her young mistress’s bedside. Yolande made a gesture to 
insure silence — for she saw that her mother was lying asleep: then 
she rose, wrapped a sliawl round her, and slipped out of the room, 
followed by her maid. 

“ What shall 1 get you, miss— 1 have kept the fire alight down 
stairs — 1 can get you a cup of tea in a minute.” 

‘‘No, no, never mind,” said Yolande, pressing her hand to her 
head. ” Tell me about my mother. ' How long has she been asleep?” 

‘‘ Not very long. Oh, she has passed a dreadful night — the poor 
lady. She was so excited at first, 1 thought she would have killed 
herself; but in the end she fairly cried herself to sleep, after I got 
her to lie down on the bed. And you don’t feel very ill, miss, I 
hope? But it was a terrible thing for you to do.” 

” What?” 

” 1 beg your pardon, miss,” said Jane, with a little embarrass- 
ment; “ but I guessed what you had done. I guessed from what 
the poor lady said. Oh, you won’t do that again, will you, miss? 
You might have killed yourself; and then whatever should 1 have 
said to your papa? And 1 don’t think you will ever have need to 
do it again — 1 heard what the poor lady kept saying to herself — you 
won’t have to do any such terrible thing again — she declares that 
she will kill herself before you have cause to do that again ” 

”1 hope there won’t be any occasion,” said Yolande, calmly; 
and then she went to the window. 

It was truly a miserable morning — dull and gray and over- 
clouded; and it had rained during the night; the street and the terrace 
were sodden and wet, and a leaden-hued sea tumbled on to the 
empty beach. But notwithstanding that, and notwithstanding her 
headache, Yolande vaguely felt that she had never looked on a fairer 
picture. This plain, matter-of-fact, commonplace world was such 
a beautiful thing after those phantom horrors through which she 
had passed. She liked to look at the solid black boats high up on 
the shingle; at the terraced footway; at the iron railing along the 
road. She began to wish to be out in that substantial world; to see 
more of it, and more closely; perhaps the cold sea breezes would 
temper the racking pain in her head? 

“Jane,” said she, “do you think you could slip into the room 
and bring me my things wfthout waking my mother?” 

“But you are not going out, miss?” said the maid, wondering. 
“ The night is scarcely over yet. Won’t you go back and lie down?” 

“ No, no,” said Yolande, almost with a shudder of dread. “ 1 
have had terrible dreams — 1 want to get outside — and I have a 
headache, besides; perhaps the fresh air will make it better. But 
you can lie down, Jane, after I have gone, and don’t wake my 
mother, no matter how late she sleeps. When I come baci perhaps 
the people in the house will be up, and I shall try to la m some 
breakfast ” i 

“ 1 could get it for you now, miss,” said Jane, eagerly. 

“ I could not touch it,” the girl said, shivering. 

The maid went and fetched her things; and when 


YOLAKDK 


255 

dressed she stole noiselessly down the stairs and got outside. How 
cold and damp the air felt: but yet it was fresh and new and 
strange; the familiar sound of the sea seemed pleasant and compan- 
ionable. As yet, in the didl gray dawn, the little town appeared to 
be asleep; all the people she could find as she passed were a police- 
man, leaning against a railing and reading a newspaper, two men 
working at the roadway, and a maid-servant cleaning the windows 
of a first-floor parlor. She walked on; and pushed back the hair 
from her forehead to let the cold sea-breeze dispel this racking pain. 
But although the headache was a bad one, and although it was a 
most rare thing for her to know what a headache was, still it did not 
depress her. She walked 'or with an increasing gladness. This 
was a fine, real world; there were no more processions of skeletons, 
or Arctic mists, or fields covered with coffins. This was Worthing; 
there was the pier; these were most substantial and actual waves 
that came rolling in until they thundered over and rushed seething 
and hissing up the beach. Moreover, was there not a gathering 
sense of light somewhere — as if the day were opening and inclined 
to shine? As she walked on in the direction of Lower Lancing a 
more spacious view of sea and sky opened out before her; and it 
appeared to her that away in the direction of Brighton the clouds 
seemed inclined to bank up. And then, gradually and here and 
there, faint gleams of a warmer light came shooting over from the 
east; and in course of time, as she still followed the windings of the 
shore, the rising sun shone level along the sea, and thfe yellow- 
brown waves, though their curved hollows were in shadow as they 
rolled on to the beach, had silver-gleaming rests, and the wide 
stretches of retreating foam that gurgled and hissed down the 
shingly slopes were a glare of cream-white dazzling to the eyes. 
She walked quickly — and proudly. She had played a bold ganu^ , 
and she hoped that she might win. Nay, more, she was prepared lo 
play it again. She would not shrink from any sacrifice; it was with 
no light heart that she had undertaken this duty. And would he 
approve — that was always her secret thought, though generally she 
tried to banish all remembrances of what was bygone — should Ikj 
ever come to know ot what she had done? For it was of her own 
planning. It was not bis suggestion at all; probably, if he had 
thought of such a means of terrorism, he would not have dared to 
recommend it. But she had laid this plan, and she had watched her 
opportunity; and she was glad that some days had elapsed before 
that opportunity had occurred, so that her mother had had time lo 
become attached lo her. And what if that once did not suffice? 
Well, she was prepared to go on. It was only a headache (and even 
that was quietly lessening, for she had an elastic constitution, and 
was a most capable walker). What were a few headaches? But no 
— she did not think that much repetition of this experiment would 
be necessary; she could not believe that any mother alive could look 
on and see her daughter poisoning herself to save her. 

The morning cleared and brightened; when she got to Lancing, 
she struck inland, by the quiet country ways; a kind of gladness 
filled her. And if she should be succcessful, after all— -if the thing 
that she had feared was to turn out a beautiful thing — if the rescue 
of this poor mother was to be her reward, what should she not owe 


256 


YOLANBE. 


him who had told her what her duty was. He had not been afraid 
to tell her — although she was only a girl. Ah, and where was he 
now? Driven away into banishment, perhaps, by what had hap- 
pened up there in the north, through her blindness and carelessness. 
Once or twice, indeed, during these long evenings, she had followed 
out a curious fancy that perhaps his crossing the Monalea hills to 
catch the afternoon train at Kingussie had really some connection 
with her coming south.. Had he wished to see that she was secure 
and guarded, now that she was embarked on an errand of his sug- 
gestion? It pleased her to think of him being in the same train. 
Perhaps — in the cold gray morning at Euston Station — standing 
backward from the people, he had watched her get into the cab; 
perhaps he had even followed in his own cab and seen her enter the 
hotel? Why should he have hurried to catch that particular train? 
Why should he have adopted that arduous route across the hills, 
unless it ^^7as that he wished to travel with her, and yet without her 
knowing it? But it was so strange that he should make this long 
journey merely to see that she was safely lodged in her hotel. 

Now she had been studying this matter on one or two occasions 
— and letting her fancy play about it with a strange curiosity — but 
it was on this particular morning, as she was nearing the little 
village of Sompting, that a new light suddenly flashed in on her. 
Who was it who had told Lawrence and Lang of her being in Lon- 
don; who had explained to them what her business was; who had 
asked Mr. Lang to go to her hotel and see her? Was it possible, 
then, that he had journeyed to London in that same train, and gone 
direct to the lawyers’ offire. so that she should have their assistance? 
He knew they w^ere her father’s lawyers; for she herself had told 
him to whom she should apply in case of difficulty ; whereas, on the 
other hand, it was not possible for her father to have written. Had 
he been guarding her, then, and watching over her, all that time 
— perhaps even looking on? And if looking on — then, in a breath- 
less kind of way she recalled the circumstances of her taslng her 
mother away. She had been disturbed and bewildered, no doubt; 
still had she not the impression of some one darting by — some one 
who felled the man who had seized her arm, and then passed quicKly 
by? Surely, surely it must have been he. Who else could have 
known? Who else could have interfered? Her heart grew warm 
with gratitude toward him. Ah, there was the true friend — watch- 
ing over her, but siill keeping back, and unrequited with a single 
word of thanks. She began to convince herself that this must have 
been so. She accused herself of blindness that she had not seen it 
before. And for how long had his guardianship continued? When 
had he gone away? Perhaps 

Then her face grew pale. Perhaps he was even now in Worthing 
still exercising this invisible care over her? Perhaps she might 
meet him again, by some accident, in the street? She stopped short 
in the road, apparently afraid to go on. For what would their 
meeting be, if such a meeting were to happen? But no, it would 
not happen — it should not happen. Even if he were in Worthing 
(and she tried to get rid of the dreams and fancies begotten of this 
morning walk) he would not seek to see her; he would avoid her 
rather; he would know, as well as she, that it was not tit and proper 


YOLANDE. 


257 

that they should meet. And why should he be in Worthing? His 
guardianship there could be of no avail ; she had nothing to fear m 
any direction where he could help. The more she calmly reviewed 
the possibilities of the case, the more she considered it likely that he 
had indeed come to London with her; that he had given instructions 
to the lawyers; perhaps, even, that he had been present when she 
bore her mother off; but even if these things were so, by this time he 
must have left, perceiving that he could do no more. And whither? 
She had a kind of dim notion that he would not quickly return to 
Gress. But whither, then — whither? She saw him an outcast and 
a wanderer; she imagined him away in far places; and the morning 
seemed less cheerful now. Her face grew grave; she walked firmly 
on. She was returning to her appointed task, and to any trials that 
might be in store for her in connection with it. 

She was getting nearer to Broadwater, when she saw along the 
road a pony-carriage coming quicidy in her direction, the next 
moment she perceived that her mother was in it, and that Jane (who 
had been brought up in the country) was driving. A few seconds 
sufficed to bring them to her; and then the mother, who seemed 
much excited, got out from the trap, and caught her daughter by 
both shoulders, and stroked her hair and face, in a sort of delirium 
of joy. 

" We have been driving everywhere in search of you — 1 was so 

afraid Ah, you are alive, and well, and beautiful as ever — 

my child, my child, I have not murdered you!” 

” Hush, mother,” said the girl, quite calmly. ” It is a pity you 
got up so early. I came out for a walk, because my head was bad; 
it is getting better now; 1 will drive you back if you like.” 

She drew the girl aside for a few yards— caressing her arm, and 
stroking her fingers. 

“ My child, 1 ought to be ashamed, and miserable; but to see you 
alive and well— I — I was in despair — 1 was afraid. But you need 
not fear any more, Yolande, you need not fear any more.” 

‘‘1 hope not, mother,” said Yolande, gravely, and she regarded 
her mother. “ For I think 1 would rather die than go through 
again such a night as last night.” 

“ But you need not fear — you need not fear!” said the other, 
pressing her hand. ‘‘ Oh, no; when I saw you lying on the bed last 
night — then — then 1 seemed to know what 1 was. But you need 
not fear. No, never again will you have to poison yourself in order 
to shame me.” 

” It was not to shame you mother — it was to ask you not to take 
any mor(3 of that— that medicine.” 

” You need not fear, Yolande, you need not fear!” she repeated, 
eagerly. ‘‘ Oh, no I have everything prepared now. I will never 
again touch it — you shall never have to sacrifice yourself like 
that ” 

“ Well, I am glad of it, dear mother, for both our sakes,” Yolande 
said. ’ ” 1 hope it will not cost you much sufieriug.” 

” Oh, no, it will not cost me much suffering,” said the mother, 
with a strange sort of smile. 

Something in her manner attracted her daughter’s attention. 

“ Shall we go back?” she asked. 


258 


YOLANDE. 


“ But I wished you to understand, Yolande, that you need have 
no longer any fear ” 

“ You have promised, mother.” 

“ Yes; but did 1 not promise before? Ah, you — you, so young, 
so strong, so self-reliant — you cannot tell how weak one can be. 
But now that is all over. This time I know. This time I can tell 
that I have tasted that poison for the last time — if there were twenty 
bottles standing by, it would not matter.” 

‘‘You must nerve yourself, mother ” 

‘‘ Oh, but 1 have made it secure in another way,” she said, with 
the same curious smile. 

‘‘ How, then?” 

” Well, what am I worth in the world? What is the value of my 
life? It is a wreck and worthless; to save it for a week, for a day, 
would 1 let you have one more headache, and be driven away into 
the country by yourself like this? Ah, no, Yolande; but now you 
are secure; there will be no more of that; when I feel that 1 must 
break my promise again; when 1 am like to die with weakness and 
— and the craving— then, if there were twenty bottles standing by, 
you need not fear. If living is not bearable, then, rather than you 
should do again w^hat you did last night, 1 will kill myself— and 
gladly!” 

Yolande regarded her with the same calm air. 

‘‘ And is that end you have appointed for me, mother?” 

Her mother was stupefied for a second; then she uttered a short 
(piick cry of terror. 

“ Yolande, what do you mean?” 

‘‘I think 1 have told you, mother, that I mean to follow j'our 
example in all things — to the end, whatever it may be. Do not let 
us sjieak of it.” 

She put her hand on her mother’s arm, and led her back to the 
pony-carriage. But the poor woman was trembling violently. This 
terrible threat had quite unnerved her. it had seemed to her so easy 
— if the worst came to the worst, if she could control her craving no 
longer— that, sooner than her daughter should be sacrificed, she her- 
self should throw away this worthless fragment of existence that re- 
mained to her. And now Yolande’s manner frightened her. This 
easy way of escape was going to produce the direst of all catastro- 
l>li(;8? iShe regarded the girl— who was preoccupied and thought- 
ful, and who allowed Jane to continue to drive— all the way back; 
and there was something in her look that sent the conviction to her 
mother’s heart that that had been no idle menace. 

AVhen they got back to Worthing, Yolande set about the usual 
occupations of the day with her accustomed composure; and 
even with a measure of cheerfulness. She seemed to attach little 
importance to the incident that had’ just happehed and probably 
wished her mother to understand that she meant to see this thing 
through as she had begun it. But it was pitiable to see the re- 
morse on the mother’s face when a slight contraction of Yo- 
lande’s brow told that from time to time her head still swam with 
pain. 

The first hamper of game from the north arrived that day; and it 
was with a curious interest that the mother (who v;as pever done 


YOLAKDE. 




259 


Wondering at her daughter’s knowledge and accomplishments 'and 
opinions) listened to all that Yolande could tell her about the various 
birds and beasts. As yet the ptarmigan showed no signs of donning 
their winter plumage; but the mountain hares here and there — espe- 
cially about the legs — showed traces of white appearing underneath 
the brownish-gray. Both at the foot and at the top of the hamper 
was a thick bed of stagshorn moss (which grows in extraordinary 
luxuriance at Allt-nain-ba) andYolande guessed— and guessed correct- 
ly — that Duncan, who had observed her on one or two occasions 
bring home some of that moss, had fancied that the young lady would 
like to have some sent her to the south. And she wondered 
whether there was any other part of the world where people were so 
thoughtful and so kind — even to the visitors who were almost stran- 
gers to them. 

At night, when Yolande went into the bedroom, she noticed that 
there was no bottle on the mantelpiece. 

“ Where is it, mother?” she said. 

” 1 have thrown it away. You need not fear now, Yolande.” her 
mother said. And then she regarded her daughter nervously. 
” Don’t mind whai I said this morning, child. It was foolish. If 
I cannot bear the suffering well, it cannot be so hard a thing to die; 
that must come if one waits.” 

” You are not going to die, mother,” said Yolande, gently patting 
lier on the shoulder. ‘‘You are going to live; for some day, as soon 
as you are strong enough, you and I are going to Nice, to drive all 
the way along to Genoa; and I know all the prettiest places to stop 
at. But you must have courage and hope and determination. And 
you must get well quickly, mother; for I should like to go away 
with you; it is such a long, long time since I smelt the lemon blos- 
sorn.in the air.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A MESSAGE. 

As subsequent events were to prove, Yolande had, by this one 
bold stroke, achieved the victory she had set her heart upon. But 
as yet she could not know that. She could not tell that the frantic 
terror of the poor mother at the thought that she might have killed 
her only child w^ould leave an impression strong enough to be a 
sufficient safegurd. Indeed, she could see no end to the undertak- 
ing on which she had entered; but she was determined to prosecute 
that with unfailing patience and with hope in the final result; ami 
also, perhaps, with the consciousness that this immediate duty ab 
sorbed her from the consideration of other problems of her life. ^ 

But wdiile she tried to shut up all her cares and interests within 
this little town of Worthiug— devising new amusements and occu()a- 
tions, keeping her mother as much as possible in the open air, and 
lightly putting aside the poor wmman’s remorse over the incidents of 
tliid critical night — there came to her reminders from the outer and 
further world. Among these was the following letter from the 
Master of Lynn, which she read wu'th strangely diverse emotions 
contending for mastery in her mind: — 


260 


YOLANDE. 


“ Station Hotel, Inverness, October 2 . 

“My dearest Yolande,— It is only this moruiog that I have 
got your address from Allt-uarn-ba; and 1 write at once, though per- 
haps you will not care to be bothered with much correspondence 
just at present. Your father lias told me what has taken you to the 
south; and indeed I had guessed something of the kind from the 
note you sent me when you were leaving. 1 hope you are well, and 
not over-troubled; and when you have time 1 should be glad to have 
a line from you— though I shall not misconstrue your silence if you 
prefer to be silent. In fact, I probably should not write to you now 
but, that your father is leaving Allt-uam ba shortly: and I suppose 
he will see you as soon as he goes south; and I think I am bound 
to give you some explanation as to how matters stand. No doubt 
he vvill think it strange that I have rather kept out of his woiy; and 
very likely he will be surprised that my father has never called at the 
lodge, or shown any sign of civility, and so forth. Well, the plain 
truth is, dear Yolande, that I have quarreled with my father, if that 
can be called a quarrel which is all bn one side — for 1 simply retire, 
on my part and seek quiet in an Inverness hotel. The cause of the 
quarrel, or estrangement, is that he is opposed to our marriage; and 
he has been put up to oppose it, I imagine, chiefly by my aunt, the 
elderly and agreeable lady whom you will remember meeting at the 
Towers. I think I am bound in honor to let 5mu know this; not 
that it in the least affects either you or me, as far as our marriage is 
concerned, for I am old enough to manage my own affairs; but in 
order to explain a discourtesy which may very naturally have offended 
your father, and also to explain why I, feeling ashamed of the whole 
business, have rather kept back, and so failed to thank your father, 
as otherwise I should have done, for his kindness to ine.*^ Of course 
I knew very well when we became engaged in Egypt that my father, 
whose political opinions are of a fine old crusted order, would be 
rather aghast at my marrying the daughter of the Member for Slag- 
pool ; but I felt sure that when he saw you and knew you, dear 
Yolande, he would have no further objection; and indeed I did not 
anticipate that the eloquence of my venerated aunt would have de- 
prived him of the use of his senses. One ought not to write so of 
one’s parent, I know ; but facts are facts; and if you are driven out 
of your own home throught the bigotry of an old man and the cat- 
tish temper of an old woman, and if you have the most angelic of 
sisters taken to nagging at you wdth letters, and if you are forced into 
the sweet seclusion of a hotel adjoining a railway station, then the 
liumor of the whole affair beigns to be apparent, and you may be in- 
clined to call things by their real names. 1 have written to your 
father to say that he need not bother about either the dogs or the 
horses; wdien he has left 1 will run down to Allt-nani-ba and see them 
sent off; but 1 have not told him why 1 am at present in Inverness; 
and 1 tell you, my dear Yolande, because 1 think you ought to know 
exactly how matters stand. 1 should not be at all surprised to hear 
from you that you had imagined something of the state of the case; 
for you must have w^mdered at their not asking you and your father 
to dinner, or something of the kind, after Polly taking you to the 
Towers when you first came north; but at all events, this is how w-e 
are situated ndw, and I should be inclined to make a joke of the 


YOLAl^DE. 


261 

whole affair, if it were not that when I think of you I feel a little 
bit indignant. Of course, it cannot matter to you — not in the least. 
It is disagreeable, that is all. If dogs delight to bark and bite, it 
does not much matter so long as they keep their barking and biting 
among themselves. It is rather hard, certainly, when they take pos- 
session of your house, and turn you out into the street; especially 
when you have a lovely sister come and accuse you of having no 
higher amibtion in life than playing billiards with coraercial travelers. 

“ I shall hang on here, I expect, until our other tenants— they who 
have the forest — leave for the south ; then I shall be able to make 
some final arrangements with our agent here; after which I shall 
consider myself free. You must tell me, dear Yolande, when and 
where you wish to see me— of course, I don’t wish to inconvenieuce 
or trouble you in any way — 1 shall leave it entirely in your hands as 
to what you would have me do. Perhaps if 1 go away for awdiile, 
the people of Lynn may come to their senses. Polly has been at 
them once or twice; she is a warm ally of yours; but, to tell you the 
truth, I would not have you made the subject of any appeal. No 
word of that kind shall come from me. Most likely when the last 
of the people that the Grahams have with them at Investroy have 
gone, Polly may go over to Lynn and establish herself there, and 
have a battle royal with my revered aunt. Of course I would not 
bother you with the derails of this wretched family squabble if 1 did 
not think that some explanation were due both to you and to your 
father. 

“ I shall be glad to hear from you if you are not too much occu- 
pied. 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“ Akchie Leslie. 

“ P. S. — I hope to be able to leave here about the 22d.’‘ 

Her first impulse was to rush away at once and telegraph to him, 
begging him not to come south; but a moment’s reflection show-ed 
her that was unnecessary. She re read the letter; there was nothing 
of the impetuosity of a lover in it, but rather a studied kindness, and 
also a reticence with regard to her present surroundings and occupa- 
tions that she could not but respect. For she knew as well as any 
one that this matter concerned him, too; and she could even have 
forgiven a trace of apprehension on his part— seeing that a young 
man about to marry is naturally curious about the new conditions 
that are to surround him. His silence on this point seemed part of 
the careful consideration that prevailed throughout this message to 
her. Then it was so clear that he would be ruled by her wishes. 
He was not coming to claim her by the right he had acquired. She 
could put away this letter for future consideration, as she had for 
the moment put aside her engagement-ring. While she was first 
leading it, some strange fancies and feelings had held possession of 
her — a quick contrition; a desire to tell him everything, and so re- 
lease herself from this bond; a remonstrance with herself, and a 
vague kind of hope that sue might make atonement by a lifelong 
devotion to him, after this first duty to her mother had been accom- 
plished. But these conflicting resolves she forced herself to discard. 
She would not even answer his letter now. There was no hurry. 


YOLANDE. 


262 

Re would not come to Worthing, if she did not wish it. And was 
it not fortunate that she could turn aside from unavailing regrets 
and from irresolute means and purposes to the actual needs of the 
moment? She calmly put the letter in her pocket, and went away 
to see whether her mother were not ready for her morning drive. 
And now it had come to passthat whenever Yolande drew near there 
was a look of affection and gratitude in this poor woman’s eyes that 
made the girl’s heart glad. 

Day after day passed; the weather happened to be fine, and their 
exploration of the surrounding country was unwearied. The cas- 
tles of Arundel and Bramber, the parks of Angmering and Bad- 
worth, Harrow Hill, Amberley Wild I3rook, Sullington, Washington, 
Storrington, Ashington — they knew them all; and they had so edu- 
cated the wise old pony that, when Jane was not with them, and 
they were walking along by the hedgeways or climbing a hill, they 
could safely leave him and the pony carriage far behind them, know- 
ing that he would come up at his leisure, keeping his own side of the 
road, and refusing to be tempted by the greenest of wayside patches. 
Yolande, both at home and abroad, was always on the watch, and 
carefully concealed the fact. But now she* was beginning less and 
less to fear, and more and more to hope; nay, at times, and rather 
in spite of herself, a joyful conviction would rest upon her that she 
had already succeeded. Four days after that relapse, a desperate 
fit of depression overtook the poor woman; but she bravely fought 
through it. 

“ You need not fear this time, Yolande,” she would say, with a 
sad smile. ” I said that once before, but I did not know then. I 
had not seen you lying on the bed — perhaps dying, as I thought. 
You shall have no more headaches through me.” 

” Ah, dear mother,” said Yolande, ” in a little time you will not 
even think of such things. You will have forgotten them. It will 
be all like a dream to you.” 

“Yes, like a dream — like a dream,” the other said, absently. “ It 
was in a dream that you came to me. 1 could not understand. 1 
heard you, but 1 could not understand, And then it seemed that 
you were leading me away, but I scarcely knew who you were. 
And the evening in the hotel, when you were showing me your 
things, I could scarcely believe it all; and when you said you would 
get me a dressing-bag, 1 asked myself why I should take that from 
a stranger. You were so new to me — and tall — and so beautiful — it 
was a kind of wonder — 1 could not think you were indeed my own 
daughter— but a kind of angel— and I was glad to follow you.” 

Well, I carried you oft',” said Yolande, plainly (for she did not 
like to encourage fantasy). “ There is no mistake about it; and I 
shall not let you go back to those friends of yours who were not at 
all good friends to you — that also is quite certain.” 

“ Oh, no, no,” she would say, grasping the girl’s hand. “1 am 
not going back— never, never, to that house. You need not fear 
now, Yolande.” 

It has already been mentioned that this poor woman was greatly 
astonislied that Yolande should know so much and should have seen 
so much, and read so many different things. And this proved to be 
a field of quite unlimited interest; for there was not a single opinion 


YOLAl^DE. 


263 


or experience of the girl that she did not regard with a strange fas- 
cination and sympathy. Whether Yolande was relating to her 
legendary stories of Brittany, of which she knew a good many, or 
describing the lonely streets of Pompeii, or telling her of the extra- 
ordinary clearness of the atmosphere in Washington (the physical at- 
mosphere, that is), she listened with a kind of wonder, and with the 
keenest curiosity to know more and more of this young life that had 
grown up apart from hers. And then Yolande so far wandered 
from the path of virtue— as laid down by her father — as sometimes 
to read aloud in French; and while she frequently halted and stum- 
bled in reading aloud in English, there never was any stumbling, 
but rather a touch of pride, when she was pronouncing such sonor- 
ous lines as this — 

“ La vaste mer murmure autour de son cercueil ” 

— and it was strange to the poor mother that her daughter should be 
more at home in reading French than in reading English, She 
would ask the minutest questions — about Y'olande’s life at the cha- 
teau, about her life on board ship during her various voyages, about 
her experiences in those mountain soTitudes of the north. Her 
anxiety to be always in the society of her daughter was insatiable; 
she could scarcely bear to have her out of her sight. And when 
Lawrence and Lang sent her, in the course of time, her usual allow- 
ance of nionney, her joy was extreme. For now, whenever she and 
Y^olande went out, she scjanned the shop-windows with an eager in- 
terest, and always she was buying this, that, or the other trinket, or 
bit of pretty-colored silk, or something of the kind for the girl to 
wear. Yolande had rather severe notions in the way of personal 
adornment; but she was w^ell content to put a bit of Cv)lor round 
her neck or an additional silver hoop round her WTist when she saw 

I the pleasure in her mother’s eyes. 

' At length she felt justified in sending the following letter to her 
father : 

“ Worthing, October 12. 

“ Mt dear Papa, — I intend this to reach you before you leave 
Allt-nam-ba; because it carries good news; and I know you have 
been anxious. I think everything goes well— sometimes I am quite 
sure of it— sometimes I look forward to such a bright future. It 
lias been a great struggle and pain (but not to me, please do not speak 
of me at ail in your letters, because that is nothing at all), but I have 
not so much fear now. Perhaps it is too soon to be certain ; but I 
cannot explain to you in a letter what it is that gives me such hope; 
that drives away what leason suggests, and compels me to think that 
all will be well. Partly, it is my mother’s look. There is an assur- 
ance in it of her determination— of her feeling that all is safe now; 
again and again she says to me. ‘ I have been in a dream; but now 
1 come out of it. Y^ou need not fear now.’ Mr. Melville said I was 
not to be too sanguine; and always to be watchful; and I try to be 
that; but I cannot fight against the joyful conviction that my mother 
is now safe from that thing. Only, she is so weak and ill yet— she 
tries to be brave and cheerful to give me comfort ; but she suffers. 
Dear papa, it is madness that you should reproach yourself for doing 
nothing, and propose to take us to the Mediterranean. No, no; 


264 


YOLANDE. 


it will not do at all. My mother is too weak yet to go anywhere; 
when she is well enough to go I will take her; but I must take her 
alone; she is now used to me; there must be no such excitement as 
would exist if you were to come for us. I am very thankful to Mr. 
Shortlands that you are going to Dalescourt; and 1 hope you will 
find charming people at his house, and also that the shooting is 
good. Dear papa, 1 hope you will be able to go over to Slagpool 
while you are in the north; and perhaps you might give an address 
or deliver a lecture — there are many of the members doing that 
now, as I see by the newspapers, and you owe something to your 
constituents for not grumbling about your going to Egypt. 

“ 1 hope everytlijng has been comfortable at the lodge since I left; 
but that 1 am sure of, for Mrs. Bell would take care. You must buy 
her something very pretty when you get to Inverness, and send it 
to her as from you and me together — something very pretty indeed, 
papa, for she was very kind to me, and 1 would not have her fancy 
that one forgets. Mr. Leslie says in a letter that he will see to the 
ponies and dogs being sent otf, so that you need have no trohble; ho 
is at the Station Hotel, as probably you know, if you wish to call 
and thank him. I remember Duncan saying that when the dogs 
were eoing he would take them over the hills to Kingussie and go 
with them by the train as far as Perth, where he has relatives, and 
there he could see that the dogs had water given them in the morning. 
But you will yourselves take them, perhaps, to Inverness? Another 
small matter, dear papa, if you do not mind the trouble, is this — 
would' you ask some one to pack up for me and send here the boards 
and drying paper and hand-press that 1 had for the wild flowers? We 
go much into the country here; and have plenty of time in the 
evening; and my mother is so much interested in any pursuit of mine 
that this would be an additional means of amusing her. You do 
not say whether you have heard anything further of Mr. Melville. M 
“ Do not think 1 am sad, or alone, or repining. Oh, no; I am verJB 
well; and I am very happy when I see m}'^ mother pleased with me.^ 
“ We do a hundred things— examine the shop-windows, walk on 
the pier or along the promenade, or we drive to ditferent places in 
the country, and sometimes we have lunch at the old-fashioned 
inns, and make the acquaintance of the people. So good-natured 
they are, and well pleased with their own importance; but I do not 
understand them always, and my mother laughs. We call the pony 
Bertrand du Guesclin; 1 do not remember how it happened; but at 
all events he is not as adventurous as the Connetable; he is too wise 
to run any risks. But lohen I am quite mre, and if my mother is 
well enough for the fatigue of the voyage, I think 1 will take her to 
the south of France, and then along the Riviera, for ifear the winter 
here, and she so delicate. Dear papa, you say 1 am not to mind the 
expense —very well, you see 1 am profiting by your commands. In 
the meantime I would not dare. I try to keep down my excitement 
— we amuse ourselves with the shops, with die driving and what not 
—it is all simple, pleasant, and I wait for the return of her strength. 
Yes, I can see she is much depressed, sometimes; and then it is that 
she has been accustomed to fly for relief to the medicines; but now 
I think that is over, and the best to be looked forward to. Yes, in 
spite of caution, in spite of reason, 1 am already almost assured. 


VOLAKDE. 265 . 

There is aometiiirig in her manner toward me that convinces me — 
there is a sympathy which has grown up— slie looks at me as she 
does not look at any one else, and I understand. It is this that con- 
vinces me. 

“ Will you give a farewell gift to each of the servants, besides 
their wages? 1 think they deserve it; always they helped me great- 
ly. and were so willing and obliging, instead of taking advantage of 
ray ignorance 1 would not have them think that 1 did not recog- 
nize it, and was ungrateful. And please, papa, get something vei'i/ 
pretty for Mrs. Bell. I do not know what. Something she could 
be proud to show to Mr. Melville would probably please her best. 

“ Write to me when you get to Dalescourt. 

“ Your affectionate daughter, 

“ Yolande.” 

There IS no doubt that Yolande made those repeated references to 
Mr. Melville with the vague expectation of learning that perhaps he 
had returned to Gress. But if that was her impression she was 
speedily undeceived. The very next morning, as she went down 
into the small lobby, she saw something white in the letter-box of 
the door. The bell had not been rung, so that the servant-maid had 
not taken the letter out. Y'olande did so, and saw that it was ad- 
dressed to herself —in a handwriting that she instantly recognized. 
With trembling fingers she hastily broke open the envelope; and then 
read these words, written in pencil across a sheet of note paper: 

You have done well. You will succeed. But he patient. Ooodhy 
~J. if.” 

She stood still — bewildered — her heart beating quickly. Had he 
been there all the time then?— always near her; watching her; guard- 
ing her, observing the progress of the experiment he had himself 
i^uggested. And now, whither had he gone— without a word of 
thanks and gratitude? Her mother was coming down the stairs. 

She quickly concealed the letter, and turned to meet her. In the dusk 
of this lob% the mother observed nothing strange or unusual in the 
look of herilaughter’s face. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

A LAST INTERVENTION. 

It has already been said of Mrs. Graham, as of her brother, that 
she was not altogether meicenaiy. She had a certain share of sen- 
timent in her composition. It is true, she had summarily stamped 
out the Master’s boyish fancies with regard to Janet Stewart ; but 
then, on the other hand (when the danger to the estates of Lynn 
was warded ofi), she could afford to cherish those verses to Shena 
Van with a sneaking fondness. Nay, more than that, she paid 
them the compliment of imitation— unknown to her husband and 
everybody else; and it may be worih while to print this, her sole 
and only literary ellort, if only to show that, just as seamstresses 
imagine the highest social circles to be the realm of true romance, 
and like to be told of the woes and joys of high-born ladies, so this 


YOLAKDE. 


2GG 

pretty Mrs. Graham, being the onl}' daughter of a nobleman, when 
casting about for a properly sentimental situation, must needs get 
right down to the bottom of the social ladder, and think it fine to 
speak of herself as a sailor’s lass. One small touch of reality re- 
mained— the hero she named Jim. But here are the verses to speak 
for themselves: — 

I care not a fig for your brag, you girls, 

And dames of high degree ; 

Or for all your silks and satins and pearls, 

As fine as fine may be ; 

For I’ll be as rich as dukes and earls 
When my Jim comes home from sea. 

It’s in Portsmouth town that I know a lane. 

And a small house jolly and free. 

That’s sheltered well from the wind and the rain, 

And as snug as snug can be ; 

And it’s there that we’ll be sitting again 
When my Jim comes home from sea. 

’Twas a fine brave sight when the yards were manned. 
Though my eyes could scarcely see ; 

It’s a long, long sail to the Rio Grand’, 

And a long, long waiting for me : 

But I’ll envy not any one in the land 
When my Jim comes home from sea. 

So here’s to your health you high-born girls 
. And ladies of great degree ; 

And I hope you’ll all be married to earls. 

As proud as proud may be ; 

But I wouldn’t give fourpence for all of your pearls 
When my Jim comes home from sea. 

Of course, she carefully concealed these verses— especially from her 
husband, who would have led her a sad life if he had found them 
and discovered the authorship; and they never attained to the dignity 
of type in the Inverness Courier, where the lines to Shena Van had, 
appeared; but all the same pretty Mrs. Graham regarded them with 
a certain pleasure, and rather approved of the independence of the 
Portsmouth young lady, although she had a vague impression that 
she might not be quite the proper sort of guest to ask to Inverstroy. 

Now her anger and dismay over the possible breaking down of the 
scheme which she had so carefully formed and tended were due to 
various causes, and did not simply arise from a wish that the Master 
of Lynn should marry a rich wife. It was her project, for one 
thing; and She had a certain sentimental fondness in regarding it. 
Had she not wrought for it, too, and striven for it? Was it for noth- 
ing that she had trudged through the dust of the Merhadj bazaars; 
and fought with cockroaches in her cabin; and gasped with the 
Egyptian heat all those sweltering afternoons? She began to con- 
sider herself ill treated; and did not know which to complain of the 
more— her brother’s indifference or her father’s obstinacy. Then 
she could get no sort of sympathy from her husband. He only 
laughed— and went away to look after his pheasants. Moreover, 
she knew very well that this present condition of affairs could not 
last. The Master's ill temper would increase rather than abate. 
Yolande would grow accustomed to his neglect of her. Perhaps 
Mr. Winterbourne would interfere and finally put an end to that 


YOLAKDK 

pretty dream she had dreamed about as they went sailing down the 
Mediterranean. 

Accordingly she determined to make one more effort. If she 
should not be able to coax Lord Lynn into a more complaisant frame 
of mind, at least she could go on to Allt-nam-ba and make matters 
as pleasant as possible with Mr. Winterbourne before he left. The 
former part of her endeavor, indeed, she speedily found to be hope- 
less. She had no sooner arrived at the Towers than she sought out 
her father and begged him to be less obdurate; but when, as she was 
putting forward Corrievreak as her chief argument, she was met by 
iier father’s affixing to Corrievreak, or rather prefixing to it, a soli- 
tary and emphatic word — a word that was entirely out of place, 
too, as applied to a sanctuary — she knew it was all over. Lord 
Lynn sometimes used violent language, for he was a hot-tempered 
man; but not language of that sort; and when she heard him utter 
that dreadful wish about such a sacred thing as the sanctuary of a 
deer forest she felt it was needless to continue further. 

“ Very well, papa,” said she, “I have done my best. It is not 
my affair. Only, everything might have been made so pleasant for 
us all ” 

‘‘ Yes, and for the Slagpool Radicals,” her father said, contemptu- 
ously. ” 1 suppose they would land at Foyers, with banners; and 
have picnics in the forest!” 

” At all events, you must remember this, papa,” said Mrs. Gra- 
ham, wdth some sharpness, ” that Archie is a gentleman. He is 
pledged to marry Miss Winterbourne, And marry her he will.” 

” Let him, and welcome!” said this short, stout, thick person with 
the bushy eyebrows and angry eyes. ” lie may marry the dairy- 
maid if he likes. 1 suppose the young gentleman has a right to his 
own tastes. But,! say he shall not bring his low acquaintances about 
this house while I am alive!” 

Mrs. Graham herself had a touch of the family temper; and for a 
second or two her face turned quite pale with anger; and when she 
spoke it was in a kind of forced and breathless way. 

1 don’t know what you mean. Who are low acquaintances? 
Yolande Winterbourne is my friend. She is fit to marry any one in 
the land — 1 care not what his rank is — and— and 1 will not have such 
things said — she is my friend. Low acquaintances? — if it comes to 
that it was 1 who introduced Archie to Mr. Winterbourne— and — 
and this is what I know about them, that if they are not fit to — to 
be received at Lynn, then neither am I!” 

And with that she walked calmly (but still with her face rather 
pale) out of the room, and shut the door behind her; and then went 
away and sought out her own dressing-room of former days, and 
locked herself in there and had a good cry. She did feel injured. 
She was doing her best, and this was what she got for it. But she 
was a courageous little w^oman, and presently she had dried her eyes 
and arranged her dress for going out; then she rang and sent a mes- 
sage to the stables to get the dog-cart nauly, lor she wanteii to drive 
to Allt nam ba, 

By and by she was driving along by the si.le of the pretty lo(^h, 
under the great hills; and she was cnnilorting herself with more 
cheerful reflections. 


YOLAKDE. 


m 


268 

“ It is no matter,” she was saying to herself. ” If only Mr. Win- 
terbourne remains in good humor, everything will go right. When 
Archie is married, he will be rich enough to have a home where he 
pleases. 1 suppose Jim wouldn’t have them always with us? — 
though it would be nice to have Yolaude in the house, especially in 
the long winter months. But Archie could build a house tor him- 
self; and sell it when he no longer wanted it. The country about 
Loch Eil would please Yolande; [ wonder if Archie could gel a 
piece of land any where near Fassie-fern ; that would be handy for 
having a yacht, too, and of course they will have a yacht. Or why 
shouldn’t he merely rent a house — one of those up Glen Urquhart, 
if only the shooting was a little better; or over Glen Spean way. if 
Lochaber isn’t a little too wild for Yolande; or perhaps they might 
get a place in Glengarry, for Yolande is so fond of wandering 
through woods. No doubt Archie exaggerated that affair about 
Yolande’s mother; in any case it could easily be arranged; other 
families have done so, and everything gone on as usual. Then if 
they had a town house we might all go to the Caledonian Ball to- 

f ether; Archie looks so well in the kilt: and Yolande might go as 
'lora Macdonald.” 

She drove quickly along the lochside, but moderated her pace 
when she reached the rough mountain-road leading up the glen, for 
she knew she would not mend matters by letting down one of her 
father’s horses. And as she approached Allt-nam-ba a chill struck 
her heart — those preparations for departure were so ominous. Dun- 
can was in front of the bothy, giving the rifles and guns their last rub 
with oil before putting them into the cases, boxes of empty soda- 
water bottles had been hauled out by the women folk for the men to 
screw up; a cart with its shafts resting on the ground stood outside 
the coach-house ; and various figures went hurrying this way and 
that. And no sooner had Mrs. Graham driven up and got down 
from the dog-cart, than her quick eye espied a tall black-bearded man 
who, from natural shyness— or perhaps he wanted to have a look at 
Duncan’s gun-rack — had retreated into the bothy; and so, instead of 
going into the house, she quickly followed him into the wide, low- 
roofed apartment, which smelt considerably of tobacco-smoke. 

“ Isn’t your name Angus?” said she. 

” Yes, ma’am,” said he, with a very large smile to show he recog- 
nized her. 

” I suppose Mr. Maepherson has sent you about the inventory?” 

” Yes, ma’am.” 

‘‘ Have you been over the house yet?” 

‘‘No, ma’am; 1 have just come out with the empty cart from In- 
verf ariguig. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Well, then, Angus, you need not go over the house. 1 don’t 
want the gentlemen bothered. Go back and tell Mr. Maepherson I 
said so.” 

‘‘ There was £7 of breakages with the last tenant, ma’am,” said 
he, very respectfully. 

‘‘Never mind,” said she; and she took out her purse, and got 
hold of a sovereign. ‘‘ Go back at once; and if you have to sleep at 
Whitebridge that will pay the cost; or you may get a lift in the mail- 
cart. My brother is in Inverness, isn’t he?” 


YOLANDE. 


269 


“ Yes, ma’am.” 

Then you can go to him and tell him I said there was to be no 
going over the inventory. This tenant is a friend of mine. You go 
to my brother when you get to Inverness, and he will explain to Mr. 
Macpherson. Now good-by, Angus”— and she shook hands with 
him, as is the custom in that part of the country, and went. 

The arrival of a stranger at Allt-natn-ba was such an unusual cir- 
cumstance that, when she went up to the door of the lodge, she found 
both Mr. Winterbourne and John Shortlands awaiting her— they 
having seen her drive up the glen; and she explained that she had 
been leaving a message with one of the men. 

‘‘I heard you were leaving, Mr. Winlerbourne,” said she, with 
one of her most charming smiles, when they had got into the draw- 
ing-room, ” and 1 could not let you go away without coming to say 
good-by. Both my husband and 1 expected to have seen much more 
of you this autumn; but you can see for yourself what it is in Ihe 
Highlands— every household is so wrapt up in its own affairs that 
there is scarcely any time for visiting. If Inverstroy had come to 
Allt-nam-ba, Inverstroy would have found Allt-nam-ba away shoot- 
ing on the hill ; and vice-versa ; and I suppose that is why old-fashion- 
ed people like my father have almost given up the tradition of visit- 
ing. AYhen do you go?” 

” Well, if we are all picked and ready, I suppose this afternoon; 
then we can pass the night at Foyers, and go on to Inverness in the 
morning. ’ ’ 

” But if I had knov/n I could have brought sortie of the people 
from the Towers to help you. My father would have been de- 
lighted.” 

She said it without a blush; perhaps it was only a slip of the 
tongue. 

” Do you think Mrs. Bell would suffer any interference?” said 
John Shortlands, with a laugh. ” I can tell you, my dear Mrs.. 
Graham, that she rules us with a rod of iron— though we’re not sup- 
posed to know it.” 

” And how is dear Y’'olande?” said Mrs. Graham. 

“ She is very well,” Yolande’s father said, instantly lowering his 
eyes, and becoming nervous and fidgety. 

” I heard something of what had called her away to the south— at 
least I presumed that was the reason,” continued Mrs. Graham, forc- 
ing herself to attack this dangerous topic in order to show that, in 
her estimation at least, nothing too important had occurred. ” Of 
course one sympathizes with her. I hope you have had good news 
from her?” 

“Oh, yes,” said he, hastily. ” Oh, yes. I had a letter last night. 
Yolande is very well.” 

” Archie,” continued Mrs. Graham, thinking enough had been 
said on that point, “is at Inverness. I declare the way those law- 
3 'ers fight over trifles is perfectly absurd. And I confess,” she 
added, with a demure smile, “ that tUe owners of deer-forests are 
not much better. Of course they always tell me I don’t know— 
that it is my ignorance; but to find' people quarreling about the line 
the march should take— when an acre of ground wouldn’t give graz- 


270 


YOLAKDE. 


ing for a sheep — seems stupid enough. Well, now, Mr. Winter- 
bourne, may 1 venture to ask hew you found the shooting?” 

” Oh, excellent— excellent,” said he, brightly, for he also was glad 
to get away from that other topic. “We have not found as many 
tleer coming about as ve exiiected; but otherwise the place has 
iuined out everything that could be wished.” 

‘‘ I am glad of that,” said she, ” for I know Archie had (pjalms 
about inducing you to take the shooting. 1 remember very well, 
on board shii), Im used to think it was a risky thing — supposing the 
place had nop turned out well, then you might have felt that — 
that ” 

” No, no, my dear Mrs. Graham,” said he, with a smile, ” Camat 
emptor. I knew 1 was taking the place with the usual attending 
risks; I should not have blamed your brother if we hud had a bad 
year.” 

8he wtis just on the point of asking him whether he liked Allt- 
nani-ba well enough to come back again; but she thought it was too 
dangerous. She had no means of knowing what he thought of Lord 
Lynn's marked unneighborliness; and she deemed it more prudent 
to go on talking of general subjects, in her light and cheerful way, 
and always on the assumption that the two families wmre on friendly 
terms, and that Yolande’s future home would be in the Highlands. 
At length she said she must be going. 

‘‘I would ask you to stay to lunch,” said Mr. Winterbourne, 
“ but I dare say you know what lunch is likely to be on the day of 
leaving a shooting-box ” 

” Dear me!” said she, in tones of vexation. ” Why did they not 
think of that at the Towers? They might have saved you a great 
deal of bother that way; but they have got into an old-fashioned 
groove there ” 

” At the same time, my dear Mrs. Graham,” said Mr. Winter- 
bourne, with great courtes}'', ” if you like to take the risk, 1 dare say 
Mrs. Bell can find you something; and we have not of ten the chance 
of entertaining any one at Allt-nam-ba. Will you take pity on us? 
Will you sit in Yolande’s place? The house has been rather empty 
since she left.” 

” i should like it of all things,” said pretty Mrs. Graham, taking 
off her hat and gloves and pulling them on the sofa, ” fori feel that 
1 haven’t given you'l^alf the messages 1 wish you to take to dear 
Yolande. And you must let me have her address, so that Jim can 
send her a haunch'of venison at Christmas.” 

‘‘ I am afraid that would not be of much use, thank you,” said he; 
‘‘ for I hope by that time, if all things goes well, that Y’^olande will 
be away in the south of Europe.” 

“Archie is going south also,” said Mrs. Graham, pleasantly. 
“ There is little doing here in the winter. After he has made all the 
arrangements with papa’s agents in Inverness, then he will be 
off to the south too. Where is Yolande likely to be?” 

“Well, I don’t exactly know,” said Mr. Winterbourne, with a 
kind of anxious evasion. “ But she will write to you. Oh, yes. 1 
will tell her to write to you. She is— she is much occupied at pres- 
ent— and— and perhaps she has not much time. But Y’'olande does 
not forget her friends. ’ ’ 


YOLAKDE. 


271 

“ She shall not forget me; for 1 won’t let her, ’’said Mrs. Graham, 
blithely. “ If she should try, 1 will come and ferret her out and 
give her a proper scolding. But 1 don’t think it will be needed.” 

The luncheon, frugal as it was, proved to a very pleasant aflair; 
for the two men-folk were glad to have the table brightened by the 
unusual presence of a lady-guest— who was, moreover, very pretty 
and talkative, and cheerful; while, on the other hand, Mrs. Graham, 
having all her wits about her, very speedily assured herself that 
Yolande’s father was leaving Allt-nam-ba in no dudgeon whatever; 
and also that, although he seemed to consider Yolande as at present 
set apart for some special duty, and not to be interfered with by any 
suggest ions of future meetings or arrangements, he appeared to take 
it for granted that ultimately she would live in the Highlands. Mrs. 
Graham convinced herself that all was well; and she was a skillful 
flatterer; and could use- her eyes; and altogether this was a very 
merry and agreeable luncheon party. Before she finally rose to go, 
she had got Yolande’s address, and had undertaken to write to her. 

And then she pleased Mr. Winterbourne very much by ask- 
ing to see Mrs. Bell; and she equally pleased Mrs. Bell by 
some cleverly turned compliments, and by repeating what 
the gentlemen had said about their obligations to her. In 
good truth, Mrs. Bell needed some such comfort. She was sadly 
broken down. When Mrs. Graham asked her about Mr. Melville, 
tears rose unbidden to the oltl dame’s eyes; and she had furtively to 
wipe them away with her handkerchief, while pretending to look out 
of the window. 

” He has written two or three times to the young lad Dalrymnle,” 
said she, with just one suppressed sob; ” and all about they'brats o’ 
bairns, as if he wasna in mair consideration in people’s minds than 
a wheen useless lads and lassies. And only a message or two to me 
about this family or the other family — the de’il take them, that he 
should bother his head about their crofts and their cows and their seed- 
corn! And just as he might be having his ain back again— to gang 
awa’ like that, without a word o’ an address. I jalouse it’s America 
—ay, I’m thinking it’s America, for there they have the electric 
things he was aye speaking o’ ; and he was a curious man, that wanted 
to ken everything. I wonder what the Almichty was about when 
He put it into people’s heads to get fire out o’ running water; they 
might hae been contented as they were; and Mr. Melville would hae 
been better occupied in planting his ain hillsides— as a’ the lairds are 
doing nowadays — than in running frae ae American town to another 
wi’ his boxes o’ steel springs and things.” 

“ But he is sure to write to you, Mrs. Bell,” said Mrs. Graham. 

” I just canua bear to think o’tl’ said the older woman, in a kind 
of despair. “ I hope he didna leave because he thought I would be 
an incumbrance to him. I hae mair sense than that. But he’s a 
proud man; though I shouldna say it. Ay, and the poor lad without 
a home — and without the land that belongs to him ” 

The good old lady found this topic too much for her; and she was 
retiring with an old-fashioned courtesy, when Mrs. Graham shook 
hands with her in the most friendly manner, and assured her that, if 
any tidings of Mr. Melville came to Inverstroy (as was almost certain), 
she would write at once. 


272 


TOLAKDE. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

LOOSENED CHAINS. 

“You ham done well — you will succeed.'' Yolande read and 
again read that brief note; pondering over it in secret; and always 
with an increasing joy. He had seen; he had approved. And now 
when she was walking about the streets of Worthing with her 
mother, she found a strange interest in guessing as to which of those 
houses he had lived in while, as she assured herself, he was keeping 
that invisible guard over her. Was it this one, or that; or perhaps 
the hotel at the corner? Had he been standing at the window there, 
and regarding her as she passed, unconscious? Had he seen her 
drive by in the little pony-carriage? Had he watched her go along 
the pier, himself standing somewhere out of the way? She had no 
longer any doubt that it was he who had gone to the office of Law- 
rence and Lang on the morning of her arrival in London; she was 
certain he must have been close by when she went to fetch her 
mother on that fateful evening And her heart was full of gratitude 
to him; and her brain was filled with fancies about him; and her 
imagination (which refused to be controlled by all the vows and re- 
solves she had made to herself, and which, moreover, had plenty of 
scope for exercise in the monotony of that Worthing life) went away 
seeking in strange and distant places, wondering wdiere he might be, 
and what he was doing, and whether he was ever casting a look be- 
hind him. And indeed as time went on, it became more and more 
certain that that forgetfulness to which she had looked forward was 
still far from her; and now she began to regard with a kind of dis- 
may the prospect of the Master of Lynn coming to claim her. She 
knew it was her duty to become his wife; that had been arranged 
and approved by her father; she had herself pledged away her 
future; and she had no right of appeal. She reminded herself of 
these facts a hundred times, and argued wdth herself; she strove to 
banish those imaginings about one who ought heoceforth to be as 
one dead to her; and strove also to prove to herself that, if she did 
what was right, unhappiness could not be the result; but all the time 
there was growing up in her heart a fear— nay, almost a conviction 
—that this marriage was not possible. She turned away her eyes 
and would not regard it; but this (jonviction pressed itself in on her 
whether she would or no. And then she would engage herself with 
a desperate assiduity in the trivial details of their daily life there, 
and try to gain forgetfulness that way. 

This w^as the letter she wrote to the Master of Lynn, in reply to 
his. It cost her some trouble, and also here and there some qualm 
of self-reproach; for she could not but know that she was not telling 
the whole truth : — 

“ Worthing, Wednesdaj' afternoon, 

“ Dear Archie,— I am exceedingly grieved to hear of your trou- 
ble with your family, and also to think that I am the cause of it. It 
seems so great a pity, and all the more that, in the present circum- 


YOLANBE. 


• 273 

stances, it is so unnecessary. You will understand from my papa’s 
letter that the duty I have undertaken is surely before any other ; 
and that one’s personal wishes must be put aside, when it is a ques- 
tion of what a daughter owes to her mother. And to think there 
should be trouble and dissension now over what must in any case be 
so remote— that seems a very painful and unnecessary thing; and 
surely, dear Archie, you can do something to restore yourself to 
your ordinary position with regard to your family. Do you think 
it is pleasant to me to think that 1 am the cause of a quarrel? And 
to think also that this quarrel might be continued in the future? 
But the future is so uncertain now in these new circumstances that I 
would pray you not to think of it, but to leave it aside, and become 
good friends with your family. And how, you may ask? Well, I 
would consider our engagement at an end for the present; let it be as 
nothing; you will go back to Lynn; I am here, in the position that 
I cannot go from; let the future have what it may in store, it will be 
time to consider afterward. Pray believe me, dear Archie, it is not 
in anger that I write; or any resentment; for I understand well that 
my papa’s politics are not agreeable to every one; and I have heard 
of differences in families on smaller matters than that. And I pray 
you to believe that neither my father nor myself was sensible of any 
discourtesy — no, surely every one has the right to choose his friends 
as he pleases; nor could one expect one’s neighbors to alter their 
habits of living, perhaps, and be at the trouble of entertaining stran- 
gers. No, there is neither resentment nor anger in my mind; but 
only a wish that you should be reconciled to your friends; and this 
is an easy way. It would leave you and me free for the time that 
miglit be necessary; you can go back to Lynn, where your proper 
place is; and 1 can give myself up to my mother, without other 
thoughts. Will you ask Mrs. Graham if that is not the wisest plan’ 
— I am sure she must be distressed at the thought of your being- 
estranged from your relatives; and I know she will think it a pity 
to have so much trouble about what must in any case be so distant. 
For to tell you the truth, dear Archie, I cannot leave to any one else 
what I have now undertaken; and it may be years of attention and 
service that are wanted; and why should you wait and wait, and 
always with the constraint of a family quarrel around you? For 
myself, I already look at my position that way. I have put aside 
my engagement-ring. I have given myself over to the one who has 
most claims on me; and I am proud to think that I may have been 
of a little service already. Will you consent, dear Archie? Then 
we shall both be free; and the future must be left to itself, 

“ It was so very kind of you to look after the sending away of the 
dogs and ponies from Allt-nam-ba; my papa has written to me from 
Dalfescourt about it; and was very grateful to you. No, I will not 
tell him anything of what is in your letter; for it is not necessary it 
should be known— especially as I hope you will at once take steps 
for a reconciliation and think no more of it. And it was very good 
of your sister to go out and pay them a visit at Allt-nam-ba. I have 
had a letter from her also— as kind as she always is— asking me to 
go to Inverstroy at Christmas; but you will understand from what I 
have said that this is impossible, nor can I make any engagement 
with any one now, nor have I any desire to do so. I am satisfied to 


274 , YOLAKDE. 

-be as lam— also, I rejoice to think that T have the opportunity; I 
wish for nothing more except to hear that you have agreed to my 
suggestion and gone back to Ljmn. A.s for my mother and myself, 
we shall perhaps go to the south of France when she is a little 
stronger; but at present she is too weak to travel; and happily we 
find ourselves very well content with this place, now that we are 
familiar with it, and have found out different ways of passing the 
time. It is not so wild and beautiful as Allt-nam-ba; but it is a 
cheerful place for an invalid— we have a pretty balcony, from which 
we can look at the people on the promenade, and the sea, and the 
ships; and we have a pony-carriage for the country roads, and have 
driven almost everywhere in the neighborhood. 

“ So now I will say good-by, dear Archie, and I hope you will 
consider my proposal, and see that it is wise. What may occur in 
the,future, who can tell? — but in the meantime let us do what is best 
for those around us; and I think this is the right way. I should feel 
far happier if I knew that you were not wondering when this service 
that I owe to my mother were to end; and also I should feel far 
happier to know that I was no longer the cause of disagreement and 
unhappiness in your family. Give my love to your sister when you 
see her; and if you hear anything about the. Gress people, I should 
be glad to hear some news about them also. 

“ Believe me, yours affectionately, 

“ Yolande.” 

She looked at this letter for a long time before putting it in an en- 
velope and addressing it; and when she posted it, it was with a 
guilty conscience. So far as it went, she had told the truth. This 
duty she owed to her mother was paramount; and she knew not for 
how long it might be demanded of her. And no doubt she would 
feel freer and more content in her mind if her engagement were 
broken off— if she had no longer to fear that he might be becoming 
impatient over the renewed waiting and waiting. But that was 
only part of the truth. She could not blind herself to the fact that 
this letter was very little more than a skillful piece of prevarication; 
and this consciousness haunted her, and troubled her, and shamed 
her. She grew uneasy. Her mother noticed that the girl seeimd 
anxious and distraught; and questioned her; butYolande answered 
evasively. She did not think it worth while to burden her moth- 
er’s mind with her private disquietudes. 

No; she had not been true to herself; and she knew it; and the 
knowledge brought shame to her cheeks when she was alone. With 
a conscience ill at ease, the cheerfulness with which she set about 
her ordinary task of keeping her mother employed and amused 
was just a little bit forced; and despite herself she fell into 
continual reveries— thinking of the arrival of the letter, of his 
opening it, of his possible conjectures about it. Then, besides these 
smitings of conscience, there was another thing; would he consider 
the reason she had advanced for breaking off the engagement as suf- 
ficient? Would he not declare himself willing to wait? The tone 
of his letter had been firm enough. He was unmoved by this 
opposition. on the part of his own people; it was not to gain any 
release that he had writt('n to her. And now might he not still 


TOLAKDE. -375 ' 

adhere to his rc55oliition — refusing to make up the quarrel: resolvecr^ 
to wait Yolande’s good pleasure: and bo, in effect, requiring of 
her the fullfilment of her plighted troth? 

• It would be difficult to say which was the stronger motive—, 
the shamed consciousness that she had not spoken honestly, or 
the ever-increasing fear that, after all, she might not be able to 
free herself from this impossible bond; but at all events she de- 
termined to supplement that letter with a franker one. Indeed, 
she stole out that same evening, under some pretense or other, and 
went to the post-office, and sent off this telegram to him: — “ Letter 
pouted to you this afternoon: do not answer it until you get the one 
following.’' Then she went back to the rooms quickly, her heart 
somewhat lighter, though, indeed, all during dinner she was puz- 
zling to decide what she should say, and how to make her coiifes-’ 
sion not too humiliating. She did not wish him to think too badly 
of her. Was it not possible for them to part friends? Or would he 
be angry, and call her “ jilt,” ” light o’ love,” and so forth, as she, 
had called herself? Indeed, she had reproached herself enough;' 
anything that he could say would be nothing new to her. Only she 
hoped — for she had had a gentle kind of regard for him, and he had 
been mixed up in her imaginings of the future, and they had spent 
happy days and evenings together, on board ship or in the small 
lodge between the streams— that they might part friends, without 
angry words. 

” Yolande, there is something troubling you,” her mother said, 
as they sat at table. 

She had been watching the girl in her sad, tender way. As soon 
as she had spoken, Y'olande instantly pulled herself together. 

” Why, yes, there is indeed!” she said. ” Shall I tell you what 
it is, mother? I have been thinking that soon we shall be as tired 
of pheasants as we were of grouse and hares. Papa sends us far too 
many; or rather it is Mr. Shortlands now ; and I don’t know what 
to do with them — unless somebody in the town would exchange 
them. Is it possible? Would not that be an occupation, now — to 
sit in a poulterer’s shop and say, ‘ I will give you three brace of 
pheasants for so many of this and so many of that ’?” 

” Y^ou wrote a long letter this afternoon,” the mother said, ab- 
sently. ‘‘ Was it to Mr. Shortlands?’' 

” Oh, no,” Y’’olande said, with a trifle of color in her face. ‘‘ It 
was to the Master of Lynn. I have often told you about him, 
mother. And one thing 1 quite forgot. I forgot to ask him to in- 
quire of Mrs. Pell where the bahad of ‘ Young llandal ’ is to be 
found— you remember I told you the story? No; there is nothing 
of it in the stupid book 1 got yesterday— no, nor any story like it, 
except, perhaps, one where a Lord Lovat of former times comes 
home from Palestine and asks for May Maisrey. 

‘ And bonnier than tliem a’ 

May Maisrey, vvliere is she?’ 

It Is a pretty name, is it not, mother? Bui I think I must write to 
Mrs. Bell to send me the words of ‘ Y^oung Randal,’ if it is not to be 
found in a book.” 


^OLAKDE. 


2 % 

“ 1 wish you would go away to your friends now, Yolande,” the 
mother said, regarding her in that sad and affectionate way. 

“ That is so very likely!” she answered, with much cheerfulness. 

‘‘ You ought to go, Yolaude. Why should you remain here? 
Why should you be shut up here — away from all your friends? You 
have done what you came for — 1 feel that now — you need not fear 
to leave me alone now — to leave me in these same lodgings. 1 can 
stay here v^ry well, and amuse myself with books and wiili looking 
at the people passing. I should not be dull. I like the rooms. I 
should find amusement enough.” 

And where am 1 to go, then?” the girl said, calmly. 

” To your friends — to all those people you have told me about. 
That is the proper kind of life for you, at your age — not shut, up in 
lodgings. The lady in the Highlands, for example, who wants you 
to' spend Christmas there- ” 

” Well, now, dear mother,” said Yolande, promptly, ” I will not 
show' you another one of my letters if you take the nonsense in 
them as if it were serious. Christmas, indeed! Why, do you know 
where we shall be at Christmas? W^ell, then, at Monte Carlo! No, 
mother, you need not look forward to the tables; I will not permit 
any such wdckedness— though I have staked more than once — or, 
rather, papa staked for me — five-franc pieces, and always 1 w'on — 
for as goon as 1 had wmn five francs I came away to make sure. But 
we shall not go to the tables; there is enough without that. There 
are beautiful drives; and you can walk through the gardens and 
down the terraces until you get a boat to go out on the blue water. 
Then, the other side you take a carriage and drive up to the little 
town, and by the sea there are more beautiful gardens. And at 
Monte Carlo I know an excellent hotel, with fine views; and always 
there is excellent music. And— ^d you think I am going to spend 
Christmas in a Highland glen! (Trazie alia bontd sua!" 

” It is too much of a sacrifice. Y^ou must leave me to myself— 1 
can do very well by myself now,” the mother said, looking at the 
girl with wistful eyes. ‘‘ 1 should be happy enough only to hear of 
you. 1 should like to hear of your being married, Y^olande.” 

“ I am not likely to be married to any one,” said she, with averted 
eyes and burning forehead. “ Do not speak of it, mother. My 
place is by you; and here 1 remain— until you turn me away.” 

That same night she wrote the letter which w^as to supplement 
the former one and free her conscience: — 

” Dear Archie,— In the letter I sent you this afternoon I w\as 
not quite frank with you; and I cannot rest until 1 tell you so. 
There are other reasons besides those I mentioned why T think our 
engagement should be broken off now; and also, for I wish to be 
quite honest, and to throw myself on your generosity and forbear- 
ance, why I think that we ought not to look forward to the mar- 
riage that was thought of. Perhaps you will ask mewhatlhcse 
reasons are— and you have the right;-' and in that case 1 will tell 
you. But perhaps you will be kind, and not ask; and 1 should 
never forget your kindness. When I promised to marry you, I 
thought that the friendliness and affection that prevailed be! ween us 
was enough; I did not imagine anything else; you must think of 


YOLANDE. 


277 

how I was brought up, with scarcely any women-friends except the 
ladies at the ChS,teau, who were 7ery severe as to the duty of chil- 
dren to their parents, and when 1 learned that my papa approved my 
marrying you, it was sufficient for me. But now 1 think not. 1 do 
not think I should bring you happiness. There ought to be no re- 
gret on the marriage-day? no thoughts going away elsewhere? You 
have the right to be angry with me; because 1 have been careless, 
and allowed myself to become affectionate to some one else without 
my knowing it; but it was not with intention; and now that I 
know, should 1 be doing right in allowing our engagement to con- 
tinue? Yes. you have the right to upbraid me; but you cannot 
think worse of me than I thick of myself; and perhaps it is well 
that the mistake was soon found out, before harm was done. As for 
me, my path is clear. All that 1 said in the other letter as to the im- 
mediate future, and I hope the distant future also, is true; you have 
only to look at this other explanation to know exactly how I am 
situated. I welcome my position and its duties — they drive away 
sometimes sad thinking and regret over what has happened. You 
were always very kind and considerate to me; you deserved that I 
kept my faith to you more strictly; and if 1 were to see your sister, 
what should I say? Only that 1 am sorry that I can make no more 
amends; and to beg for your forgiveness and for hers. And per- 
haps it is better as it is for all of us. My way is clear. I must be 
with my mother. Perhaps, some day, if our engagement had con- 
tinued, 1 might have been tempted to repine. I hope not; but I have 
no longer such faith in myself. But now you are free from the impa- 
tience of waiting; and I — 1 go my own way, and am all the more cer 
tain to give all my devotion where it is needed. 1 would pray you not 
to think too harshly of me, only 1 know that 1 have not the right to 
ask; and I should like to part friends with you, if only for the sake 
of the memories that one treasures. My letter is ill expressed — that 
I am sure it must be; but perhaps you will guess at anything 1 
should have said and have not said ; and believe that I could stretch 
out my hands to you, to beg for your forgiveness, and for ^ntle 
thoughts of me in the future, after some years have given us time to 
look back. I do not think little of any kindness that has been shown 
to me; and I shall remember your’kindness to me always; and also 
your sister’s; and the kindness of every one, as it seemed to me, 
whom I met in the Highlands. I have made this confession to you 
without consulting any one; for it is a matter only between you and 
me; and I do not kiiow how you will receive it; only that 1 pray 
you once more for your forgiveness, and not to think* too harshly, 
but, if you have such gentleness and commiseration, to let us remain 
friends and to think of each other in the future as not altogether 
strangers. I know it is much that 1 ask; and that you have the right 
to refuse; but I shall look for your letter with the remembrance of 
your kmdness in the past. 

“ Yolande.” 

It was a piteous kind of letter; for she felt very solitary and un- 
guided in this crisis; moreover, it was rather hard to fight through 
this thing and preserve at the same time an appearance of absolute 
^cheerfulness so long as her mother was in the room. But she got it 


TOLANDE. 


278 

done; and Jane was sent out to the post-office; and thereafter Ao- 
lande— with something of trial and trouble in her eyes, perhai)s, but 
otherwise with a brave face — fetched down some volumes from 
the little book-case, and asked her mother what she wanted to have 
read. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE HOUR OF VENGEANCE. 

The Master of Lynn had spent the whole of the morning in arrang 
in g affairs with his father’s agent; and when he left Mr. Ronald 
]\Iacpherson’8 office he knew that he had now all the world to 
choose from. He was anxious to get away from this dawdling life 
in Inverness; but on the other hand, he was not going back to Lynn, 
lie still felt angry and indignant; he considered he had been badly 
used ; and it is far from improbable that if, at this moment, Yolande 
liad been differently situated, and if Mr Winterbourne had been 
likely to give his consent, he, the Master, would now have proposed 
an iiumediale marriage, leaving his father and aunt to do or think as 
they pleased. But, in the present circumstances, that was impossi- 
ble; and he did not know well which way to turn; and had gen- 
erally got himself into an unsettled, impatient, irritable condition, 
which boded no good either for himself or for them who had 
thwarted him. 

He returned to the Station Hotel, and was having lunch by him- 
self in the large and almost empty dining room when two letters 
•were brought him which had doubtless arrived by that morning’s 
mail. As he was thinking of many things it did not occur to him 
to look at both addresses and decide which letter should have prece- 
dence; he mechanically opened and read the first that came to hand: 

“ St. James’s Club, Piccadilly, Oct. 31. 

“ Dear Leslie, — Are you game for a cruise? I will go where 
you like; and start any day you like. I have never taken the Juliet 
across the Atlantic — what do you say? The worst of it is, there 
ain’t much to see when you get there; but we should have some fun 
going over and coming back. Drop me a line. She is at Plymouth; 
and could be got ready in a week. 

“You rs ever, D arto wn. ’ ’ 

Now to have a three-hunded-ton steam-yacht put at your disposal 
is an agreeable kind of thing; but there were other circumstances in 
this case. Lord Dartowui was a young Irish peer who had inlierited 
an illustrious name, large estates (fortunately for him, some of them 
were in England), and a sufficiency of good looks; but who, on the 
other hand, seemed determined to bid a speedy farewell to all of 
these by means of incessant drinking. His friends regarded him with 
much interest; for he was doing it on dry champagne; and as that 
is a most unusual circumstance — champagne being somewhat too 
much of child’s play for the serious drinker— they looked on and 
wondered how long it would last, and repeated incredible stories as to 
the number of bottles this youth could consume from the moment of 


279 ' 


YOL.IKDE. 

hi.*^ awaking in his berth until his falling asleep in the same. The 
Juliet was an exceedingly well-appointed vessel; the cook had a 
reputation that a poet might envy; but the habits ol the owner wera 
peculiar; and most frequently he had to makeliis cruises alone. But 
he had always had a great respect for the Master of Lynn, who was 
his senior by a year or tw'^o, when they were schoolfellows together; 
and sometimes in later years a kind of involuntary admiration for 
the firm nerve and hardened frame of his deer-stalking friend would 
lead to a temporary fit of reformation, and he would even take to 
practicing with dumb-bells, which his trembling muscles could 
scarcely hold out at arm’s length. 

“ Owley must be off his head altogether this time,” the Master of 
Lynn coolly said to himselL as he regarded the shaky handwriting 
of the letter. ” To think of facing the ‘ rolling forties ’ at this time 
of year! We should die of cold besides. Not good enough, Owley; 
you must throw' a fly over somebody else.” 

So he put that letter aside; aj)d took up the other. It was the 
second one of the two that Yolande had sent him; he had got its 
predecessor on the previous day. And now, as he read this final 
declaration and confession, it was with an ever-increasing surprise; 
but it certainly w'as wdth no sense of dismay, or disappointment, or 
even the resentment of wounded vanity. He did not even, at this 
moment, heed the piteous appeal for charity and kindliness; it was 
not of her he w'as thinking; add scarcely of himself; it was rather 
of the people at Lynn. 

‘‘ Now I will show them what they have done!” he was saying to 
himself, with a kind of triumph. ” They shall see what they have 
done; and I hope they will be satisfied. As for me, I am going my 
own way after this. I have had enough of it. Polly may scheme 
as she likes; and they may rage, or refuse, or go to the deuce, if they 
like; I am going to look after'myself now.” 

He picked up the other letter, and took both with him into the 
writing-room; he had forgotten that he had left his luncheon but 
half finished. And there he read Yolande’s appeal to him with more 
care; and he was touched by the penitence and the simplicity, and 
the eager wish for friendliness in it; and he determined, as he sat 
down at the writing-table, that, as far as he had command of the 
English language, she should have safe assurance that they were to 
part on kindly terms. Indeed, as it turned out, this was the most 
affectionate letter he had ever sent her; and it might have been said 
of him, with regard to this engagement, that nothing in it so w'ell 
became him as his manner of leaving it. 

” My deakest Yolande,” he wrote, 1 am inexpressibly grieved 
that you should have given yourself the pain to wuite such a letter; 
and you might have known that whenever you wished our engage- 
ment to cease I should consider you had the right to say so, and so 
far from accusing you or doing anything in the tragedy line 1 should 
beg to be allowed to remain alw^ays your friend. And it won’t lake 
any length of time for me to be on quite friendly terms with you— if 
you will let me; for I am so now; and if 1 saw you to-morrow I 
should be glad of your companionship for as long as you chose to 
give it me; and I don’t at all think it impossible that we may have 


280 


YOLANDE. 


many another stroll along the streets of Inverness, when you come 
back to the Highlands, as you are sure to do. Of course, 1 am quite 
sensible of what I have lost — you can’t expect me to be otherwise; 
and I dare say, if all the circumstances had been propitious, and if 
we had married, we should have gol on very well together — for 
when Polly attributes everything that happens to my temper, that 
is merely because she is in the wrong, and can’t find any other 
excuse; whereas, if you and I had got married, 1 fancy we should 
have agreed very well, so long as no one interfered. But, to tell 
you the honest truth, my dear Y^olande, 1 never did think you were 
very anxious about it; you seemed to regard our engagement as a 
very light matter— or as something that would please everybody all 
round; and though 1 trusted that the future would right all that— I 
mean that we should become more intimate and affectionate 
— still, there would have been a risk, and it is only common sense to 
regard these things now, as some consolation, and as some reason 
why, if you say, ‘ Let us break off this engagement,’ 1 should say, 

‘ Very well; but let us continue our friendship.” 

” But there is a tremendous favor I would beg and entreat of you, 
dearest Y'olande; and you always had the most generous disposition 
— 1 never knew you refuse anybody anything (1 do believe that was 
why you got engaged to me — because you thought it would please 
the Grahams and all the rest of us). I do hope that you will con- 
sent to keep the people at Lynn in ignorance — they could only know 
through Polly, and you could keep it back from her — as to when it 
was, or why it was, 'that our engagement was broken off. This is 
not from vanity: I think you will say I haven’t shown much of 
that sort of distemper. It is merely that 1 may have the whip hand 
of the Lynn people, Ihey have used me badly; and I mean to take 
care that they don’t serve me so again; and if they imagine that our 
engagement has been broken off solely, or even partly, through their 
opposition, that will be a weapon for me in the future. And then 
the grounds of their opposition— that they or their friends might 
have to associate with one professing such opinions as those your 
father owns! V^ou may rest assured, dearest Y'olande, that 1 did not 
put you forward and make any appeal; and equally I knew you 
would resent my making any apology for your father, or allowing 
that any consideration on their part was demanded. It’s no use 
reasoning with raving maniacs; I retired. But I mention this once 
more as an additional reason why, if our engagement is to be broken 
off, we should make up our minds to look on the best side of 
affairs, and to part on the best of terms; for I must confess more 
frankly to you now that there would have been some annoyance, and 
you would natuially have been angry on account of your father, and 
I should have taken your side, and there would simply have been a 
series of elegant family squabbles. 

” There are one or two other points in your letter that I don’t 
touch on; except to say that I hope you will write to me again — and 
soon ; and that you will write in a very different tone. I hope you 
will see that many things justify you in so doing; and I hope I have 
made this letter as plain as can be. I have kept back nothing; so 
you needn t be reading between the lines. If you have no time to 
write a letter, send me a few words to show that you are in a more 


TOLAKDE. 


281 

cheerful mood. If you don’t, I shouldn’t wonder if I broke through 
all social observances and presented myself at your door — to con- 
vince you that you have done quite right, and that everything is 
well, and that you have given me a capital meaus of having it out 
with the Lynn people when the proper time comes. So please let 
me have a few lines; and in the meantime I hope 1 may be allowed 
to sign myself, yours most affectionately, A. Leslie. 

“ P.S.— Do you remember my telling you of the small youth who 
was my fag — the cheeky young parly who was always smuggling 
champagne and pastry ? 1 may have told you that he is now the 

owner of a Ihree-hundied-ton yacht? Well, he wants me to go a 
cruise with him. 1 ha,d not intended doing so; but it occurs to me 
that 1 might do worse — as all my affairs are settled up here; and so, 
if you can write within the next few days, will you please address 
to me at the Hotel, Jermyn Street?” 

Then he wrote: — 

“ Inverness, Oct. 31. 

” Dp]AR Owley, — It isn’t a compagnon de voyage you want; it’s a 
strait waistcoat. You would knock the Juliet all to bits if you took 
her across now; and a fine thing to choose winter for a visit to New 
York, where the weather is cold enough to freeze the ears off a brass 
monkey. This letter will reach London same time as m 5 ’^ 8 elf; so 

you can look me up at Hotel, Jermyn Street; and I’ll talk to 

you like a father about it. My notion is you should send the Juliet 
to Gib., and we could make our way down through Spain; or, if that 
is too tedious for your lordship, send her to Marseilles, and then we 
could fill up the intervening time in Paris. 1 have never been to 
Venice in a yacht; and don’t remember whether you can get near 
enough to Daniel i’s to make it handy; but 1 suppose, even if you 
have to lie down by the Giudecca, there would be no difficulty about 
getting people to a dance on board? I’ll see you through it. 

“Yours, A. Leslie.” 

And then (for now the hour of vengeance had struck) he wrote as 
follows to his sister — 

“ station Hotel, Oct. 31. 

“ Dear Polly,— I have to inform you, and I hope you will con- 
vey the information to his papa-ship and to Aunty Tab, that my 
engagement to Yolande Winterbourne is finally, definitely, and irrev- 
ocably broken off. I hope they will be satisfied. I shall be more 
careful another lime to keep the affair in my own hands. 

“ 1 am off for a cruise with Dartown, in the Juliet. Guess there’ll 
be about as much fluid inside as outside that noble craft. Your 
affectionate brother, Archie.” 

And then, having folded up and addressed his letters, he rose and 
went outside and lit a cigar. He thought he would have a sti'oll 
away through the town and out by the harbor, just to think over this 
that had occurred, and what was likely to occur, in the future. It 
happened to be a very bright and cheerful afternoon; and he walked 
quickly, with a sort of glad consciousness that now he was master 
of his own destiny, and meant to remain so; and when he came in 
of the ruflied and windy blue sea, that had suggestions of voy- 


YOLANDE. 


m 

aging and the seeing of strange places that were pleasant enough. 
Then his cigar drew well; and that, although it maybe uncon- 
sciously, tells on a man’s mood. He began to be rather grateful to 
Yolande. He hoped she would quite understand his letter; and an- 
swer it in the old familiar, affectionate way, just as if nothing had 
occurred. It distressed him to think she should be in such grief — 
in such penitence. But he knew he should get some cheerful lines 
from her; and that, and all, was well. 

By and by, however, a very uncomfortable suspicion got hold of 
him. He had had no very large experience of women and their 
ways; and he began to ask himself whether the ready acquiescence 
he had yielded to Yohinde’s prayer would please her over much. It 
cerhainly was not flattering to her vanity. For one thing, he could 
not wholly explain his position to her. He could not tell her that he 
had virtually said to his father, “ Here is a way of getting back 
Corrievreak; and getting the whole estate into proper condition. 
You refuse? Very w’ell; you mayn’t get another chance, remem 
ber." He could not fully explain to her why her proposal, instead 
of bringing him disappointment, was rather welcome, as offering 
him a means of vengeance for the annoyance he had been subjected 
to. She knew nothing of Shena Van. She knew nothing of the 
proposal to complete the Lynn deer forest. And so he began to think 
that his letter, breaking off the engagement so very willingly, might 
not wholly please her; and as he was well disposed toward Yolande 
at this moment, and honestly desiring that they should part ilie best 
of friends, he slowly walked back to the hotel, composing a few 
more sentences by the way, so that her womanly pride should not 
be wounded. 

But it was a difficult matter. He went up stairs to his room, and 
packed his things for the journey to London, while thinking over 
wdiat he would say to her. And it was very near dinner-time before 
he had finished this addendum to his previous letter. 

“ My dearest Yolande,” he wrote, “ I want to say something 
more to you; if you get the two letters together, read this one 
second. Perhaps you may think, from what 1 said in the other, 
that 1 did not sufficiently value the prospect that w^as before me at 
one time, or else 1 should say something more about losing it. I am 
afraid yoh may think I have given you up too easily and lightly ; 
but you would make a great mistake i^)u think 1 don’t know what 
I have lost. Only 1 did not want to make it too grave a matter ; 
your letter was very serious; and 1 wanted you to think, and 1 want 
you to think, that there is no reason why we should not continue on 
quite friendly and intimate terms. Of course, 1 know what 1 have 
lost; I w'asn’t so long in your society— on board ship, and in the 
dahabeah, too, and at Allt-nam-ba — without seeing how generous 
you were, and sincere, and anxious to make every one* around you 
happy; and if it comes to that, and if you will let me say it, a man 
naturally looks forward with some pride to having always with him 
a wife who can hold her own with everybody in regard to personal 
appearance, and grace and finish of manner, and accomplishments. 
Of course 1 know what 1 have lost. I am not blind. I always 
looked forward to seeing you and Polly together at the ball at the 


Northern Meeting, But wlien you say it is impossible, and seem 
]mt out about it, naturally 1 tried to liud out reasons for looking at 
the best side of the matter. It is the wisest way. When you miss 
a bird it is of no use saying, ‘ Confound it, I have missed;’ it is 
much better to say, ‘ Thank goodness I didn’t go near it; it won’t 
go away wounded.’ And quite apart from anything you said in 
your letter of to day there was enough in your letter of yesterday to 
warrant us both in consenting to break oft the engagement Cir- 
cumstances were against it, on both sides. Of course I would liave 
gone on — as I wrote to you. A man can’t be such a cur as to break 
his word to his promised wife simply because his relatives are ill- 
tempered — at least, if I came across such a gentleman he wouldn't 
very long be any acquaintance of mine. But there would have been 
trouble and family squabbles, as I say, if not a complete family 
separation — which could not be pleasant to a young wife; and then, 
on your side, there is this duty to your mother, which was not con- 
templated when we were engaged; and so, w'hen we consider every- 
thing, perhaps it is better as it is. I dare say, if we had married, 
we should have been a.s contented as most people; and I should have 
been very proud of you as my wife, naturally; but it is no use specu- 
lating on what might have been. It is very fortunate, when an en- 
g igement is broken oft, if not a particle of blame attaches to either 
side; and in that way we should consider ourselves lucky, as giving 
no handle for any ill-natured gossip. 

“ Of course, Polly will be cut up about it. She always had an 
extraordinary affection for you; and looked forward to your being 
her sister. Graham will be disappointed too; you were always 'ccry 
highly valued in that quarter. But if you and I are of one mind 
that the decision we have come to is a wise one, it is our business, 
and DO one else’s.” 

lie stopped and read over again those last sentences. 

“ I consider, now,” he was saying to himself, ” that that is a 
friendly touch. No blame attaching to either side: that will please 
)ier; she always was very sensitive, and pleased to be thought well 
of.” 

‘‘And even,” he continued, ‘‘if I should get reconciled to my 
people (about which I am in no hurry), Lynn will seem a lonely 
place after this autumn; and I suppose I shall conceive a profound 
detestation for next year’s tenant of Allt-nam ba. Probably two or 
three bachelor fellows will have the Lodge; and it will be pipes and 
brandy and soda and limited loo in the evening; they won’t know 
that there was once a fairy living in that glen. But I don’t despair 
of seeing you again in the Highlands, and your father too; and, as 
they say the subject of deer forests is to be brought before the House, 
he will now be in a position to talk a little common sense to them 
about that subject. Did you see that the chief agitator on this mat- 
ter has just been caught speaking about the grouse and red deer of 
Iona? 'Now I will undertake to eat all the red deer and all the 
grouse he can find in Iona at one meal", and I’ll give him three 
months for the search.” 

He thought this was very cleverly introduced. It was to give her 
^he impression that they could now write to each other indifferently 


284 


YOLANDE. 


on the subjects of the day— in short, that they were on terms of ordi- 
nary and pleasant friendship. 

“ But 1 dare say you will consider me prejudiced — for 1 have 
been brought up from my infancy, almost, with a rifle in my hand; 
and 80 1 will end this scrawl, again asking from you a few lines just 
to show that we are friends as before, and as 1 hope we shall ever 
remain. 

“ Yours, most affectionately, 

“ Archie Leslie.” 

It was a clever letter, he considered. The little touches of flattery; 
the business-like references to the topics of the day; the frank ap- 
peals to her old friendship — these would not be in vain. And so he 
Avent in to his dinner with a light heart, and the same night went 
comfortably to sleep in a saloon-carriage bound for London. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A PERILOUS SITUATION. 

The Master of Lynn, however, was not destined to^get to London 
without an adventure — an adventure, moreover, that was very near 
ending seriously. Most people who have traveled in the north will 
remember that the night train from Inverness stops for a considera- 
ble time, in the morning, at Perth, before setting out again for the 
south; and this break in the journey is welcome enough to pas 
sengers who wish to have the stains of travel washed from their 
hands and faces, to get their breakfast in peace and comfort, and 
have their choice of the morning newspapers. The Master of Lynn 
had accomplished these various duties; and now he was idly walk- 
ing up and down the stone platforms of the wide-resounding station, 
smoking a cigarette. He was in a contented frame of mind. There 
had been too much trouble of late up there in the north; and he 
hated trouble; and he thought he would find the society of “ Owley ” 
very tolerable, for ” Owley ” would leave him alone. He finished 
his cigarette; had another look at the book-stall; purchased a two- 
shilling novel that promksed something fine, for there was a picture 
outside of a horse coming to awful grief at a steeplechase, and its 
rider going through the air like a cannon-ball; and then he strolled 
back to the compartment he had left, vacantly wfliistling the while 
“The Hills of Lynn.” 

Suddenly he was startled to find a well-known face regarding him. 
It was Shena Van; and she was seated in a corner of a second-class 
carriage. The moment she saw that he had noticed her she averted 
her eyes, and pretended not to have seen him, but he instantly went 
lo the door of the carriage. 

“ It isn’t possible you are going to London, Miss Stewart?” said 
he, in great surprise, 

“ Oh no,” said Shena Van. “ I am not going so far as that.” 

“ How far, then?” he asked— for he saw that she was embar 
rassed, and only wishing to get rid of him, and certainly that she 
would afford no information that wasn’t asked for. 


YOLAN-DE. 


285 


I am going to Carlisle,” said she, not looking at him. 

” And alone?” 

” Oh yes. But my brother’s friends will be waiting for me at the 
station.” 

” Oh, you must let me accompany you, though,” said he, quickly. 
” You won’t miiKl?” 

He did not give her the chance of refusing; for he had little 
enough time in which to fetch his things along from the other car- 
riage. Then he had to call the newsboy, and present to Miss Stew- 
art such an assortment of illustrated papers, comic journals, and 
magazines as might have served for a voyage to Australia. And 
then the door was shut, the whistle shrieked, and the long, heavy 
train moved slowly out of the station. 

” Well, now,” said he, ” this is lucky! V/ho could have expected 
it? 1 did not see you at the station last night.” 

She had seen him, however, though she did not say so. 

” 1 did not even know you were in Inverness; I thought you were 
at Aberdeen.” 

‘‘ I have been in Aberdeen,” said she. ” I only went back a day 
or two ago to get ready for going south.” 

” 1 suppose I mustn’t ask you what is taking you to Carlisle? — 
and yet we used to be old friends, you know.” 

JNow Miss Stewart was a little bit annoyed at his thrusting himself 
on her society, and she was very near answering saucily that it was 
the train that was taking her south; but a little touch of feminine 
vanity saved him from that reproof. Sliena Van was riither glad to 
have the chance of telling him why she was going south. 

” It is no great secret,” said she. ” I am going to stay with the 
family of the young lady whom my brother will marry before long. 
It appears that the professorship will be worth a good deal more 
than w'e expectea — oh yes, indeed, a good deal more — and there is 
no reason why he should not marry.” 

” Wtll, that is good news,” said the Master, cheerfully. “And 
what sort of girl is she? Nice?” 

“ She is a very well accomplished young lady,” said Shena VSn, 
with some dignity. “ She was two years in Germany at school and 
two years in France, and she is very w’ell filled to be a professor's 
wife, aud for the society that comes to my brother’s house.” 

“ I hope she is good looking?” 

‘‘As to that,” said Miss Stewart, “I should say she was very 
pretty indeed; but that is of no consequence now'adays.” 

“ Why, wdiat else is!” he exclaimed, boldly. 

But this was clearly dangerous ground; and Miss Stewart sought 
refuge in the pages of Punch. 

He had time to regard hei\ He had never seen her look so well. 
She had made ample use of the clear water supplied at Perth sta- 
tion, and her face was as fresh as the morning, while her pretty, 
soft light brow n hair was carefully brushed and tended. As for her 
eyes — those strangely dark blue eyes that he could remember in 
former years brimming over with girlish merriment or grown pen- 
sive with imaginative dreams— he could not get a fair glimpse of 
them at all, for when she spoke she kept them averted or turned 
down; and at present she devoted them to the study of Punch. He 


286 


YOLAKDE. 


began to regret those extensive purcliases at the station. He mada 
sure she was at this moment poring over IVIr. Du Maurier’s draw- 
ings — for it is to them that woinen-folk instinctively turn first, and 
he grew to be jealous of Mr. Du Maurier, and to wish, indeed, that 
Mr. Du Maurier had never been born — a wish, one may be certain, 
then formulated for the first and only time by any inhabitant of 
these three countries. Moreover, when she had finished with Punch, 
she took up this magazine and that magazine, and this journal and 
that journal, the while answering his repeated attempts at conversa- 
tion in a very distant and reserved way, and clearly intimating that 
she wished to be allowed to prosecute her studies. He hated the 
sight of those pages. He was ready to devote the wliole periodical 
literature of his country to the infernal gods. Why, look now on 
this beautiful, shining morning, how she ought to be admiring those 
far-stretching Ochils and the distant Hraes of Donne! Here were 
the wooded banks of Allan Water; had these no romantic associa- 
tions for her, no memories of broken-hearted lovers and sad stories, 
and the like! Had she no eye for the wide open strath they were 
now entering, with the silver winding Links of Forth coming nearer 
and nearer, and a pale blue smoke rising afar over the high walls 
and ramparts of Stirling town? He verily believed that, just to 
keep away from him, and fix her attention on something, she was 
capable of reading Parliamentary Debates — the last resort of the 
vacant mind. 

But once they were away from Stirling again he determined at all 
hazards to startle her out of this distressing seclusion. 

“ Shena,” said he. “ do 1 look ill?” 

She glanced up, frightened. 

“No.” 

“I ought to look ill — 1 ought to look unhappy and miserable,” 
said he, cheerfully. ‘‘ Don’t you know that 1 have been jilted?” 

Well, she did not quite know what to say to that. He loojted as 
if he was joking, and yet it was not a thing lie was likely to men- 
tion in joke — and to her. 

” It is quite true, I assure you,” said he, seeinjr that she did not 
make answer. ‘‘You said you had heard I was going to be married. 
Well, it’s all broken off.” 

‘‘ 1 am very sorry,” said Shcna Van, as in duty bound, but she 
was clearly not very sure as to how to take the news. 

” Oh, please don’t waste any pity on me,” said he. ‘‘ I don’t feel 
very miserable. I feel rather the other way. ‘ Ah, freedom is a 
noble thing ’-—you remember how Barbour used to puzzle you, 
Shena? Y^es, 1 am free now to follow out my own wishes; and 
that’s what 1 mean to do.” 

‘‘ You are going to live in London, perhaps?” said Miss Stewart, 
regarding him, but not betraying any keen personal interest. 

‘‘ Why, this is the point of it,” said he, with greater animation, 
for at last she had deigned to lay down the newspaper, ‘‘ that I 
don’t in the least know where 1 am going, and don’t much care. 1 
liave determined to be my own master, since my folk at home 
appeared disinclined to accept the programme 1 had sketched out; 
absolutely my own master. And uow'if you, Shena, would tell mo 


YOLANDE. ^87 

something very tine and pleasant for me to do, that would bo a 
kindness.” 

‘‘ In the meantime,” said she, with a slight smile, ”1 wish you 
would call me by my right name.” 

” Do you think I can forget the days when you were always 
‘Shena’?” said he, with a sort of appealing glance that her eyes 
were careful to avoid. “ Don’t you remember when 1 brought you 
the white kitten from Inverness, and how it was always pulling its 
collar of daisies to pieces? Don’t you remember my getting you 
the falcon’s wings? AYhy, I had to lie all night among the rocks on 
Carn-nau Gael to get at that falcon. And you were always ‘Shena ’ 
then.” 

” Because I was a child,” said Miss Stewart, with a slight flush 
on the pretty, fresh-colored face. ” When we grow up we put aside 
childish things.” 

” But we can’t always forget,” said he, 

” Indeed, it seems easy enough to many,” she answered, but with 
no apparent sarcasm or intention. ” And you have not fixed where 
jmu are going. Mr. Leslie?” she added, wdtli a certain formality. 

” At the present moment, to tell jmu the truth,” said he ” I have 
half made an engagCiuent to go away on a yachting cruise with a 
young fellow 1 know’. But he is rather an ass. 1 am not looking 
forward to it with any great pleasure. Ah! I could imagine another 
kind of trip.” 

She did not ask him what it was. She seemed more inclined to 
turn over the title pages of the magazines. 

‘‘I can imagine two young people who are fond of each other 
being able to go away by themselves on a ramble through Ital}’ — 
perhaps tw’o young people who had been separated, and meeting 
after a time, and inclined to take their lives into their own bands, 
and do with them what seemed best — leaving friends and other 
considerations aside altogether. And they might have old times to 
talk about as they sat at dinner — by themselves — in a room at this 
or that hotel — perhaps overlooking the Rhine, it may be, if they 
were still in Germany; or perhaps overlooking the Arno, if they 
were in Florence. Fancy having only the one companion with 
you. to go through the galleries, and see all the pictures; and to go 
to the o^era with you in the evening — just the one and only com- 
pani 'r> 5 mu would care to have with jmu. Wouldn’t that be a trip?” 

” aare say,” replied Miss Stewart, coldly. ” But the two people 
wouia I r/e to be pretty much of one mind.” 

” T ii -r ‘-mpposing they are fond of each other,” said he, looking 
at h< rr b i she would not meet his glance. 

“t . •■pp e it sometimes happens,” said she. taking up one of the 
magK . 4 s, so that he w’as forced to seek refuge in a comic journal, 
grer-i j :ga nst liis will. 

P.y 1 '>y they were hurling onward through the solitudes where 
the r OUtUlul Cl 5 ule draw’s its waters from the burns that trickle and 
tuniM'* '^!v* vn the slopes of ” Tintock Tap.” He thought it was 
not k- ! <>i Shena Van to hide herself away like that. Her imagi- 
na: v.i .Id not warm to any picture be could draw’ — though that 
of i.i.. 1 ng together in the Florentine gallery seemed to him rather 
ca .■! g. Perhaps she was offended at his having neglected her 


288 


YOLAKDE. 


for such a long time? But she was a sensible young woman; she 
must have understood the reasons. And now had he not intimated 
to her that he was no longer inclined to submit to the influence of 
his friends? But she did not betray any interest or curiosity. 

“ 1 wonder whether we stop at Beattock Junction?” said he. 

‘‘ 1 am sure 1 don’t know,” she answered, civilly. 

“ Has it occurred to you, Shena,” said he, with a peculiar sort of 
smile, ‘‘that if any one who knew both of us happened to be at one 
of those stations, they might make a curious surmise about us?” 

‘‘ I do not understand you,” Miss Stewart observed. 

” Did you ever hear of Allison’s Bank Toll-house?” he asked. 

“No.” 

‘‘ That was where they made the Gretna Green marriages — it is just 
on this side the Border. I think it is rather a pity the Gretna 
Green marriages were done away with; it was an effectual way of 
telling your friends to mind their own business. There was no 
trouble about it. But it is just about as easy now, if you don’t 
mind paying fora special license; and 1 do believe it is the best way. 
ITour friends can get reconciled to it afterward if they like; if they 
don’t like, they can do the other thing. That was what 1 was 
thinking, Shena — if some of our friends were to see us in this car- 
riage, it wouldn’t surprise me if they imagined we were on a venture 
of that kind.” 

Shena Van blushed deeply, and was ashamed of her embarrass- 
ment; and said, with some touch of anger, 

‘‘ They could not think of such nonsense!” 

‘‘ It’s the sensible plan, though, after all,” said he, pertinaciously, 
and yet appearing to treat the subject as a matter of speculation. 
‘‘Jock o’ Hazledean, Young Lochinvar, Kouald Macdonald, and the 
rest of them, why, they said, ‘ Oh, hang it, let’s have no more 
bother about 3 'our friends; if you are willing to chance it, so am 1 ; 
let’s make a bolt of it, and they can have their howl when they And 
out.’ And it answered well enough, according to all accounts. 
1 rather think there was a row about Bonn}'^ Glenlyon; but then the 
noble sportsman who carried her off carried her off against her will; 
and that is a mistake. It’s ‘ Will ye gang to the Hielands, Leezie 
Lindsay?’ and if you can persuade her, she ‘ kilts up her coats o’ 
green satin,’ and you lift her into the saddle; but if she doesn’t see 
it — if she thinks it isn’t good enough — you drop the subject.” 

‘‘ You seem to have been reading a good many songs,” said Shena 
Van, rather coldly. ‘‘ But people don’t go on in that way in 
ordinary life.” 

‘‘Perhaps it might be better if they did occasionally,” said he. 
‘‘ You remember Jack Melville, of course?” 

*‘ Oh, certainly,” said she, with some eagerness, for she thought 
he would now leave that other perilous topic. 

‘‘ Well, I remember one night, in my rooms, when we were at 
Oxford together, he propounded the theory that morality is merely 
a system of laws devised by the aged and worn-out for keeping 
young people straight. Of course it was only a joke; but it .dartled 
the boys a bit. And although it was only a joke, mind you, there 
was something in it; 1 mean, for example,' tnat it doesn’t follow, 
because 3 mu’re seventy, you know wdiat is best for a person of five- 


YOLAH^DE. 


289 

and-twenty. You may know what is most prudent, from the 
money point of view, but you don’t necessarily know what is best. 
You look with different eyes. And there is a great deal too much 
of that going on nowadays.” 

” Of what?” she asked innocently. 

“ Oh, of treating life as if everything were a question of money,” 
replied this profound philosopher— who had for the moment forgot- 
ten all about Corrievreak in his anxiety to get a peep at Sbena Van’s 
unfathomable blue ej^es. 

Miss Stewart now returned to one of those inhuman periodicals, 
and he searched his wits in vain for some subject that would draw 
her thence. Moreover, he began to think that this train was going 
at a merciless speed. They smashed through Lockerbie. They had 
scarcely a glimpse of Ecclefechan. Kirtlebridge went by like a” flash 
of lightning. And then he recollected that very soon they should 
be at Gretna Green. 

“ Shena,” said he, eagerly—” Shena, have you been as far south 
as this before?” 

‘‘ Oh no,” she answered. ” I have never been further south than 
Edinburg and Glasgow. But Mary Vincent is to be at the station 
waiting for me.” 

” 1 did not mean that. Don’t you know that you will soon be at 
Gretna? Don’t you know yon will soon be crossing the Border? 
'Why, you should be interested in that! It is your first entrance 
into England. Shall I tell you the moment you are in England?” 

” Oh yes, if you please,” said Miss Stewart, condescending to 
look out and regard the not very picturesque features of the sur- 
rounding scenery. 

” "Well, you be ready to see a lot of things at once, for I don’t 
know whether you actuall}' see Gretna Green church; but 1 will 
show you the little stream that divides the two countries — that was 
the stream the runaway lovers were so anxious to get over. I am 
told they have extraordinary stories in Gretna about the adventures 
of those days. 1 wonder nobody goes and picks them up. They 
had some fun in those days. 1 wish 1 had lived then. Modern life 
is too monotonous — dOxi’t you think so?” 

” I don’t know,” said Shena Van, honestly. 

” 1 mean I wish 1 had lived in those days if 1 had had the chance 
of running away with somebody that made it worth the risk. 
Shena.” said he, “supposing you had lived at that time, don’t you 
think you would rather have had the excitement of that kind of 
wedding than th(3 ordinary humdrum sort of affair?” 

“I have never thought anything about it,” said Miss Stewart, 
with some precision — as if an}-- properly conducted young woman 
would give a moment’s consideration to the manner in which she 
might wish to be married’ 

“ Look' look!” said he, jumpingup, and involuntarily putting his 
hand on ner arm. “ Look, Shena! The village is over there— here 
is the river, see! — it is the Sark— and the bridge is down there, to 
the left of that house— that house is an inn, the last in England on 
the old coach-road ” 

She took away her arm. 

” Ah,” said he, as he sat down, “ many a happy couple were glad 


YOLAKDE, 


290 

to find their great big George the Fourth phaeton clattering over 
the bridge there— the triumph after all the risk ” ^ 

Then he reflected that in a few minutes’ time they would be in 
Carlisle; and this made him rather desperate; for when again should 
he see Shcna Vau— and Shena Van alone! 

“ Can you imagine yourself living at that time, Shena; and if I 
were to ask you to make otf for Gretna with me and get married, 
what would you say?” 

” You— you have no right to ask me such a question,” said Shena 
V^n, rather breathlessly. 

” There would have been no chance of your saying ‘ yes’? ” he 
asked, gently. 

” I don’t know what you mean,” said she, and she was nervously 
twisting the magazine in her hand. ” 1 — I think you are forgetting. 
You are forgetting who you are— who 1 am — and everything that — 
that once happened— I mean, that nothing happened — for how could 
it? And to ask such a question — even in joke— well, 1 think you 
have no right to ask me such a question, and the absurdity of it is 
enoueh answer.” 

” I did not mean it as a joke at all, Shena,” said he, quite humbly, 
and yet trying to catch sight of her eyes. “ I asked you if you could 
imagine other circumstances — other circumstances in which I might 
ask you such a question. Of course, I am very sorry if 1 have 
offended you ” 

‘‘I think that there has been enough said,” said Miss Stewart, 
quietly, and indeed with a good deal of natural dignity. 

Just before they were going into Carlisle station, she said: 

‘‘I hope, Mr, Leslie, you won’t misunderstand me, but— but, of 
course. Miss Vincent and her friends won’t know who you are. and 
1 would rather they did not know. There is always silly talk going 
on; it begins in amusement, and then people repeat it and believe 
it.” 

” 1 shall be quite a stranger to you when we get into the station,” 
said he. ‘‘ And in the meantime 1 will say good-by to you ; and you 
must tell me that we part good friends, although you do seem to care 
so little about those bygone days, Shena.” 

” Good-by,” said she, holding out her hand (but with her eyes cast 
down). ” And perhaps 1 care for them as much as I ought; but one 
acquires a little common sense as one grows up. I hope you will 
have a pleasant trip in the yacht, Mr. Leslie.” 

At the station he got out first, and assisted her to alight; then he 
got a porter for her, and raised his hat to her with the air of a per- 
fect stranger, as she disappeared with her friends. Then he had his 
own things shifted into a first-class smoking compartment, and the 
journey was resumed. 

It was a lonely journey. There was something wrong. He 
already hated the Juliet, and looked forward with disgust to being 
thrown on the society of a brainless young idiot. Nay, this was the 
matter: why had he not asked Janet Stewart plump and plain? 
Why had he nor asked her to stop at Carstairs Junction, and go back 
with him to Edinburgh or Glasgow, where he could have easily 
found friends to take care of her until the special license hud been 


YOLANDE. 291 

obtained? Why had he not dared his fate? Sometimes women 
were captured by the very suddenness of the proposal. 

“ And as for the people at Lynn,” he was saying to himself dur- 
ing these perturbed meditations, ” why, then they might have had 
some good occasion to squawk. They might have squawked to 
some good purpose then. But I missed my chance — if ever there 
was one, and now it is this accursed j'acht and that insufferable 
young nincompoop!” 

Things did net look altogether serene for the Right Honorable 
Lord Dartown of Dartown, County Limerick, and Ash wood Manor, 
Berks. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

A SPY. 

It is quite impossible to describe the gladness and gratitude with 
which Yolande read the letter from the Master of Lynn, which not 
only gave her her freedom, but said good-by in such a friendly 
fashion. For once a ray of sunlight fell on a life which of late had 
not been of the brightest. 

“Yolande, what is the matter? You have had good news this 
morning?” said the mother, coming into the room, and noticing the 
radiant face of the girl. 

“ Yes, indeed, mother — the best I have had for many a day,” said 
she, and she led her mother to the window, and put her in the easy- 
chair, and patted her shoulder affectionately. “ The best news 1 
have had for many a day.” 

“ What is it? May 1 ask?” 

For an instant Yolande hesitated; then she laughed, and put the 
letter in her pocket. 

“ No; it would be too long to explain. But shortly I will tell 
you what it is, mother— why, only that one of the friends I know in 
the Highlands has been generous and kind to me. Is it a wonderful 
thing? Is it new — unexpected?” 

“Ah, you ought to be with them, Yolande; not here, throwing 
away your time on me.” 

“ Ridiculous! ridiculous!” said she, in her French way, and then 
with a light step and bright face she went off to get writing ma- 
terials. 

“ Dear Archie ” (she wrote), — “ It is so good of you. I do not 
deserve it. You have made me very happy; and I hope you also 
will soon be reconciled at home and everything go well. It is a 
great pleasure you offer me that we should always continue friends, 
and I hope it will be so; I know it will on my side; and one may be 
in Inverness some day, perhaps?— then I should be pleased to see 
you again, and also your sister, and Colonel Graham. But tlrat will 
be a long lime, if at all ; for my mother, though she is much better, 
does not get strong as I wish, and naturally 1 remain with her — per- 
haps for always. How could 1 leave her? But if once she were 
strong enough to travel, then one might perhaps see one’s friends, 
in the Highlands or elsewhere; and in the meantime it is consolation 


292 


YOLA^^DE. 


to know that they remain your friends, and think of you occa- 
sionally. Dear Archie, you are really too kind to me, and too flat- 
tering also: but you cannot expect a woman to fight very hard 
against that, so 1 am glad you will have as generous an opinion of 
me as is possible, even if it is exaggerated, and pernaps not quite 
true. 1 remember your speaking of your schoolfellow very well — is 
he the most favorat^le of companions for a yachting voyage? 1 sup- 
pose you are going south, for now the days are becoming cold, and 
we are thinking of going away to the south also. How strangre it 
would be if my mother and I were to be seated on one of the terraces 
of Monte Carlo, and you were to come sailing into the harbor below 
usl You must tell me the name of the yacht; and when we are at 
Nice or Cannes, or such places, I will look in the newspapers for the 
lists, and perhaps hear of you. 

“ This is all I can write to you at the moment, but you must be- 
lieve me that it does not convey to you anything like what 1 feel. 
You will excuse me— perhaps you will understand. But I will not 
forget your kindness. 

“ Your grateful Yolande. 

“ P.S. —1 will do as you wish about not stating any reasons, 
though 1 am afraid that is only another part of your consideration 
and generosity in disguise.” 

She-went to get her hat and cloak. 

“ Tais-toi, mon gas, 

Et ue ris pas, 

Tont va de mat en pire,” 

she was humming to herself, most inappropriately, as she put them 
on. And then she went back to her mother. 

” Will you get ready, mother? I have a letter to post. And 1 
want to see if they can get me as much more of that fur as will make 
a hood for a traveling-cloak— ah, you have no idea how comfortable 
it is if the weather is cold, and you are on a long railway journey.” 

‘‘ Why, you spoil me, Yolande — you make a petted child of me,” 
the mother protested. 

” Come, get on your things,” said she, not heeding. “ And per- 
haps when we are seeking for the fur I might get a winter cloak for 
Jane. Does she not deserve a little present? She has been very 
attentive— has she not, do you think?” 

“ When she has had the chance, Yolande,” the mother said, with 
a smile. ” But you do everything yourself, child.” 

The altercation in the girl’s manner after the receipt of that letter 
was most marked. Gladness dwelt in her eyes, and spoke in her voice. 
She grew so hopeful, too, about her mother’s health that now, when 
they went out for a morning stroll among the shops, she would buy 
this or the other small article likely to be of use to them in traveling. 
That was partly why she presented Jane with that winter cloak; 
Jane was to be their sole attendant. And no w all her talk was^about 
orange groves and palms, and marble terraces, shaded from the sun; 
and the summer blue waters of the south. 

But there vras one person who certainly did not regard the break- 
ing off of this engagement with equanimity. Immediatelv on re- 
ceiving the brief note sent from the Station Hotel at Inverness, Mrs. 


YOLANDE. 


293 

Graham, astonished and indignant and angry, posted over straight- 
way to Lynn, and told her tale, and demanded explanations. Well, 
they had no explanations to offer. If it were true. Lord Lynn said, 
indifferenlly, it was a very good thing; but he did not choose to 
bother his head about it. Then pretty Mrs. Graham had a few words, 
verging on warmth, with her Auut Colquhoun; but she quickly 
saw that that would not mend matters. Thereupon she thought she 
would appeal to Yolande herself; and she did so— dating the letter 
from Lynn Towers. 

My Dear Yolande” (she said),—” Is it true? Or has Archie 
been making a fool of us? Of course he is off without a word of 
explanation, and I cannot imagine it possible that his and your en- 
gagement should have been so suddenly broken off, and without any 
apparent cause. Forgive me for interfering, dearest Yolande; 1 
know it is no concern of mine, except in so far as this goes, that Archie 
is my brother, and I have a right to know whether he acted as he 
should have done, and as becomes the honor of our family. I have 
a right to know that. At the same time it seems incredible that you 
and he should have parted — and so suddenly— without any warning; 
for although there was some disagreement here, as he probably 
hinted to you, still that could have nothing to do with him and you 
ultimately, and he dislinclly informed me that his position with re- 
gard to you was not affected, and would not be affected, by anything 
happening here. I hope I am not giving you pain in making tliese 
inquiries, dear Yolande; but I think I have a right to know that 
my brother conducted himself honorably; for it was through us, 
you may remember, that he made your acquaintance, and both Jim 
and I would consider ourselves in a measure responsible if he has be- 
haved badly. But I dare say it is not so serious as that. I know 
he is impatient of worry, and probably he has asked you to — well, I 
don’t know what he could fairly ask ; and all I can say is that I hope, 
if matters are as he says, that he has done nothing to cause us re- 
proach. You may well think that we shall both — 1 mean Jim and 
I— be exceedingly grieved if it is true, for we both looked forward 
to have you as our sister and friend, and you may depend on it that 
if there had been any temporary disagreement in one quarter, that 
would have been more than atoned for in the warmth of the wel- 
come you would have got from us. Pray forgive me, dearest 
Yolande, for begging a line from you at your very earliest con- 
venience; it is nol idle curiosity, and I trust your answer will be 
that Archie’s exaggeration only means that for awhile he is leaving 
you to the duties that now occupy you. and that in time everything 
will be as it w^as. My best love to you, dearest Yolande, from your 
affectionate friend, Mary Graham. 

” P.S.— Surely it cannot be true, or your father would have told 
me on the day of his leaving Allt-nam-ba? Will you please write 
to luvcrstroy?” 

Yolande remembered her promise to the Master of Lynn, and 
deemed it safest to say as little as possible. So she merely wrote: 

”My dear Mary,— I hasten at once to say that your brother’s 
conduct has been always and throughout most honorable, and that 


294 


YOLANDE 


in the breaking off of our engagement it has been even more — it has 
been most manly and generous. Pray have no fears on that head. 
As for the reasons, it is scarcely worth while explaining them, when 
it is all over and gone now. Do you think you need tell me that 
you would have given me welcome in the Highlands? — indeed. I 
have had experience of that already. I hope still to be your friend, 
and perhaps some day, in the Highlands or elsewhere, we may be 
once more together. In the meantime please remember me most 
kindly to your husband, and believe me, yours affectionately. 


“ Yolande Winterbourne.” 


Yolande now seemed to consider that episode in her life as over 
and done with, and set herself all the more assiduously to the service 
of her mother, who, poor woman! though she could not fail to see 
the greater cheerfulness and content of the girl, and probably herself 
derived some favorable influence from thaC still remained in a weak 
and invalidish condition which prevented their migration to the 
south. However something now occurred which slopped, once and 
for all, her recurrent entreaties that Yolande should go a wav to her 
own friends and leave her by herself. One day, as she was seated 
in her accustomed easy-chair,* looking at the people and the sea and 
the ships, she suddenly uttered a slight exclamation, and then quick- 
ly rose and withdrew from the window. 

“ Yolande dear!” she exclaimed in a voice of terror — ” Yolande!” 

” Yes, mother,” the girl answered, looking calmly up from her 


se" 



And then she saw that her mother was strangely agitated, and in- 
stantly she rose and caught her by the hand. 

‘‘ What is it, mother?” 

” I have seen that man that you know of — Romford.” 

” Well, what of that?” the girl said, quietly. 

” But he was looking up at the house. Yolande,” said she, obvi- 
ously in great alarm. ” He must know that we are here. He must 
have sought us out.” 

” Very well, and what of that?” said Yolande. And she added, 
with a gentle touch of scorn: ” Does he wish to be asked to have 
some tea with us? I think we are not at home just now.” 

“But you don’t understand, child— you don’t understand,” said 
the mother, with a kind of shiver. ‘‘ To see him was to recall 
everything. I was in a dream, and nowit looks hideous to me; and 
the thought of his coming here, and wishing to take me back to that 
life, when I did not care whether each day was to be the last ” 

“My dear mother,” said Yolande, “ is it of much consequence 
what the gentleman wishes? It is of more consequence what I wish; 
and that is that you are to remain with me.” 

“ Oh yes, with you, Yolande, with you!” she exclaimed, and she 
eagerly _ caught both hands of the girl and held them tight. “ Al- 
ways with you — always, alw'^ays! I am not going away from you — I 
dare not go away. I have asked you to go to vour friends, anil leave 
me by myself; but I will not ask it again; 1 am afraid; if I were 
alone, he might come and speak to me— and— and persuade me that 
his wife was the one who best knew how to take care of me. Oh, 
when I think of it, Yolande, it maddens me!” 


YOLANDE. 


295 

“Then you need not think of if, mother dear,’* said the girl, 
pressing her to sit down. “ Leave Mr. Romford to me. Oh. 1 will 
make him content with me, if he chooses to be Irouhlesome. Do not 
fear.’’ 

“ If he should come to the house, Yolande?’’ 

“The ladies do not receive this afternoon,’’ she answered, 
promptly, “ nor to-morrow afternoon, nor the next day morning, nor 
any other time, when the gentleman calls whom you will describe to 
the landlady and her two girls, and also to jane. As for me. I 
scarcely saw him — I was too bewildered, and too anxious about 
you, mother, and then, at last, when he did come near me, pouf ! 
away he went on the pavement. And as for him now, I do not care 
for him that” and she flicked her middle finger from the tip of her 
thumb. 

“ But he may speak to us on the street, child!’’ 

“ And if we do not wish to be spoken to. is there no protection?’* 
said Yolande, proudly. “ Come to the window, mother, and I will 
show you something.’’ 

“ Oh, no, no!’’ she said, shrinking back. 

“ Very well, then, I will tell you. Do you not know the good- 
natured policeman who told us when the harness was wrong at the 
shaft, and put it right for us? And if we say to him that we do 
not wish to have any of the gentleman’s conversation, is it not 
enough?’’ 

“ I do not think I could go back now,’’ the mother said, absently, 
as if she were looking over the life, or rather the living death, she 
had led. “ I have seen you. I could not go back and forget you; 
and be a trouble to you. and to your father. He must be a forgiv- 
ing man to have let you come to me; and yet not wise. I was con- 
tent; and those people were kind to me. Why should your life be 
sacrificed?” 

“What a dreadful sacrifice, then!” exclaimed Yolande, with a 
smile. “Look around — it is a dreadful sacrifice! And when we 
are at Cannes, and at San Reno, and at Bordighera, it will be even 
more horrible and dreadful.” 

“ But no, no, I cannot go back now,” she said. “ The sight of 
that man recalls everything to me. And yet they were kind to me. 

I could do as I pleased and it was all in a kind of dream. I seemed 
to be walking through the nigiit always. And indeed I did not like 
the daytime— I liked to be in my own room alone in the evening, 
with newspapers and books; and it was a kind of half sleep with 
waking pictures — sometimes of you, Yolande — very often of you; 
but not as you are now; and then they would come and torture me 
with telling me how badly I was treated in not being allowed to see 
you — and then — then I did not know what I did. It is terrible to 
think of.” 

“Don’t think of it, mother, then.” 

“ It is all before me again,” the wretched woman said, with a 
kind of despair. “ I see what I have been, and what people have 
thought of me. How can I raise myself again? It is no use trying. 
]\Iy husband away from me, ray friends ashamed to speak of me, my 
child throwing away her young life to no end — why should I try — I 


296 


YOLANDE. 


should be better away — anywhere — to hide myself and be no longer 
an injury and a shame.” 

” Mother,” said Yolande, firmly (for she had had to fight those fits 
of hopelessness before, and knew the way of them well), ‘‘ don’t talk 
nonsense. I have undertaken to make you well, and I have very 
nearly succeeded, and I am not a:oiug to have my patient break 
down on my hands and people say I am a bad doctor. I wonder 
what you would have said if I had called in a real doctor, to give 
you physic and all the rest of it, whereas I get all kinds of nice 
things for you, and take you out for drives and walks, and never a 
word of medicine mentioned. And I don’t think it is fair, when you 
are getting on so well, to let yourself drop into a fit of despondency, 
for that will only make you worse, and give me so much longer 
trouble before I have you pulled through. For you are not going 
to shake me off — no, not at all — and the sooner you are well, the 
sooner we are off to France and Italy, and the longer you are not 
well, the longer it is you keep me in Worthing, which perhaps you 
will not find so cheerful when the winter comes. Already it is cold; 
some morning when you get up you will see — what? nothing but 
snow! — everything white, and then you wdll say it is time to fly, and 
that is right; but why not sooner?” 

” Well, to be beside you, Yolande,” said the mother, stroking the 
girl’s hand. ” is what I live for. If it were not for that, I should 
not care what happened.” 

Yolande professed to treat this Mr. Romford as a person of little 
account; but she was in her inmost heart a trifle more disquieted 
than outwardly she made believe. She shrewdly suspected that he 
was not the sort of gentleman to be disporting himself at a watering- 
place merely for amusement; and she made no doubt that, somehow 
or other, he had found out their address and had followed them 
hither in the hope of getting her mother once more under his control. 
As to that she had no fear; but to make sure that he had no 
monetary or other claim that could warrant his even knocking at the 
door of the house she resolved to write at once to Lawrence and 
Lang. The answer was prompt; she got it by the first post next 
morning; and it said that as ” our Mr. Lang,” by a fortunate acci- 
dent happened to be at the moment in Brighton, they had tele- 
graphed to him to go along and see her; consequently Miss Winter- 
bourne might expect him to call on her during the course of the day. 

This was far from being in accordance with Yolande’s wish; but 
she could not now help it; and so she went to her mother, and said 
that a gentleman would probably call that day with whom she want- 
ed to have a few minutes’ private talk; and would the mother kind- 
ly remain in her room for that time? 

” Not — not Romford?” said she, in alarm. 

” I said a gentleman, mother,” Yolande answered. 

And then a strange kind of glad light came into the mother’s face; 
and she took her daughter’s hands in hers. 

‘‘ Can it be, then, Yolande? There is one who is dear to you?” 

The girl turned very pale for a second or so; but she forced herself 
to laugh. 

” Nonsense, mother. The gentleman is calling on business. It is 


YOLAKDE. 297 

very inconvenient; but the firm told him to come along from Bright- 
on; and now I can’t prevent him.” 

” I had hoped it was something more,” said the mother gently, as 
she turned to her book again. 

Mr. Lang called about half past twelve. 

‘‘ I am very sorry you should have taken so much trouble about 
so sjnall an affair,” said Yolande. 

” But you must understand, Miss Winterbourne,” said the tall, 
white-haired man, with the humorous smile and good matured eyes, 
” that our firm are under the strictest injunctions to pay instant heed 
to the smallest things you ask of us. Touhave no idea how we have 
been lectured and admonished. But 1 grant you this is nothing. 
The man is a worthless fellow, who is probably disappointed, and he 
may hang about, but you have nothing to fear from him. Every» 
thing has been paid; we have a formal acquittance. 1 dare say the 
scoundrel got three times what was really owing to him, but it was 
not a prodigious sum. Now what do you want me to do? I can’t 
prosecute him for being in Worthing.” 

” No; but what am 1 to do if he persists in speaking to my moth- 
er when we are out walking?” 

” Give him in charge. He’ll depiart quick enough. But 1 should 
say you had little to fear in that direction. Unless he has a chance 
of speaking to your mother alone, he is not likely to attempt it at 
all.” 

“And that he shall not have; I can take care of that,” said 
Yolande, with decision. 

“You really need not trouble about it. Of course if he found your 
mother in the hands of a stranger, what happened before might Lap- 
pen now; that is to say, he would go and try to talk her over; would 
say that she was never so happy as when he and his wife were 
waiting on her, that they were her real friends, and all that stuff. 
But 1 don’t think he will tackle jmu, ” he added, with a friendly 
sort of smile. 

“ He shall not find my mother alone, at any rate,” said Yolande. 

“ I hear everything is going on well?” he ventured to say. 

“ I hope so — I think so,” she answered. 

“It was risky —I may say, it was a courageous thing for you to 
do, but you had warm friends looking on.” 

She started and looked up, but he proceeded to something else. 

“ I suppose I may not see Mrs. Winterbourne— or may I?” 

“ I think not,” said Yolande. “ It would only alarm her, or at 
least excite her, and I am keeping all excitement away from her. 
And if you will excuse me, Mr. Lang, I will not keep her waiting. 
It is so kind of you to have come along from Brighton.” 

“ 1 dare not disobej’’ such very strict orders,” said he, with a 
smile, as he took up his hat and opened the door. 

She did not ring the bell, however, for the maid-servant; she said 
she would herself see him out, and she followed him down stairs. 
In the passage she said; 

“ I want you to tell me something, Mr. Lang. I want you to tell 
me who it was wlio explained to jmu what you were to do for me 
when I arrived in London, for 1 think 1 know.” 

“ Then there can be no harm in telling you, my dear young, lady. 


tOLA^rnil. 


m 

He called again on us, about a couple of weeks ago, on bis way 
north, and laid us under more stringent orders than ever. Mr. John 
Melville. Was that your guess?” 

” Yes,” said Yolande, with her eyes downcast, but in perfectly 
calm tones. ” I thought it was he. 1 suppose he was quite well 
when you saw him?” 

” Oh, yes, apparently — certainly.” 

“ Good-by, Mr. Lang. It is so kind of you to have taken all this 
trouble.” 

” Good morning,” said Mr. Lang, as he opened the door and went 
his way. And he also had his guess. 


CHAPTER XLVIl. 

SNOW AND SUNLIGHT. 

Yolande, however, was a strict and faithful guardian ; and Mr. 
Romford, no doubt finding it impossible to get speech of her moth- 
er alone, had probably left the place, for they saw no more of 
him. Indeed, they were thinking of other matters. Y^'clande was 
anxious to get away to the south, and yet afraid to risk the fatigue 
of traveling on a system obviously so frail as her mother’s was. 
She kept lingering on and on in the hope of seeing some improve- 
ment taking place, but her mother, though much more cheer- 
ful in spirits, did not seem to gain in strength; indeed, she 
seemed physically so weak that again and again Yolande posiponed 
their departure. This also had its drawbacks, for the weather was 
becoming more and more wintry, and oui-of-door exercise was being 
restricted. It was too cold for driving; Y^olande had sent back the 
pony-carriage. Then she dared not expose her mother to northerly 
or easterly winds. Frequently now she had to go out for her morn 
ing walk by herself, a brisk promenade once or twice up and down 
the pier being enough to send her home with pink cheeks. At last 
she said lo her mother, with some timidity, 

” I have been thinking, mother, that we might take some one’s ad- 
vice as to whether you are strong enough to bear the journey,” 

” I think I could go,” the mother said. ” Oh, yes, I should like 
to try, Yolande, for you seem so anxious about it, and of course 
Worthing must be dull for you.” 

The girl did not mind this reference to herself. 

‘‘ I have been thinking how it could be most easily done, mother. 
I would get a carriage here, and have you nicely wrapped up from 
the cold, and we should drive to Newhaven; that would be moiQ 
comfortable than the tedious railway journey round by Lewes. Then 
we should choose our own time of crossing when the sea was calm; 
and the railway journey from Dieppe to Paris is so much shorter 
than the Calais route. But to Marseilles— that is a terrible long 
journey.” 

” I think I could do it, Y^olande; I see you are so anxious to get 
away — and no wonder.” 

”1 am anxious for your sake, mother. But I am afraid to take 


YOLAKDE. 


299 

the responsibility. Would you mind my asking someone? Would 
you mind my taking some advice?” 

” But you are the best doctor 1 have ever had,” said the mother, 
with a smile. ” I would rather take your advice than any one’s.” 

” But I am afraid, mother,” she said. And then she added, 
cautiously, ” It was not the advice of a doctor I was thinking of.” 

” Whose, then?” 

The girl went and stood by her mother’s side, and put her hand 
gently on her shoulder. 

‘‘Mother, my father is fretting that he can be of no service to 
us.” 

” Oh no, no, no, Yolande,” the other cried, with a sudden terror. 
‘‘ Don’t think of it, Yolande — it would kill me — he will never for- 
give me.” 

‘‘ There is no forgiveness needed, mother; all that is over and for- 
gotten. Mother ” 

But the mere mention of this proposal seemed to have driven the 
poor woman into a kind of frenzy. 8he clung to her daughter’s 
arm, and said in a wild sort of way, 

‘‘ If I saw him, Yolande, I should think he was coming to take 
you away from me — to take you away from me! It would be the old 
days come back again— and — and the lawyers ” 

She was all trembling now, and clinging to the girl’s arm. 

Stay with me, Yolande; stay with me. I know I have done 
great harm and injury, and I cannot ask him to forgive me; but you 
— 1 have not harmed you; I can look into your face without re- 
proach.” 

‘‘ I will stay with you, mother; don’t be afraid. Now pray calm 
yourself; I won’t speak of that again, if it troubles you; we shall be 
just by our two selves for as long as ever you like; and as for law- 
yers, and doctors, or anybody else, why, you shall not be allowed to 
know that they exist.” 

So she gradually got her mother calmed again; and by and by, 
when she got the opportunity, she sat down and wrote to her father, 
saying that at present it was impossible he should come and see 
them, for that the mere suggestion of such a thing had violently 
alarmed and excited her mother, and that excitement of any kind 
did her most serious mischief. She added that she feared she would 
have to take on her own shoulders the responsibility of deciding 
whether they should attempt the journey; that most likely they 
would try to proceed by short stages; and that, in that case, she 
would write to him again for directions as to where they should go 
on arrivint; in Paris. 

That, indeed, was what it came to; although the girl naturally 
wished to share with some qualified person the responsibility of the 
decision. But now, as heretofore, whenever she hinted that they 
ought to call in a skilled physician, merely for a consultation, the 
mother betrayed such a nervous horror of the idea of seeing any 
stran_ger that the proposal had to be dropped. 

‘‘ Whv, Y^olande, why?” she would say. ” I am well enough- 
only a li’ttle weak. I shall be stronger by and by. What could you 
ask of a doctor?” 

‘‘Oh, well, mother,” the girl said, rather vaguely, “one might 


YOLAKDB. 


300 

leave it to himself to make suggestions. Perhaps he might be of 
some help— who knows? Tnere are tonics now, do you see, that 
might strengthen you — quinine, perhaps? — or ” 

“ No, no,” said she, in rather a sad fashion. ” I have done with 
drugs, Yolande. You shall be my doctor; I don’t want any one 
else. I am in your hands.” 

” It is too great a responsibility, mother.” 

” You mean to decide whether we leave Worthing?” said the 
mother, cheerfully. “ Well, 1 will decide for you, Yolande. I say 
— let us go. ’ ’ 

” We could go slowl}^ — in short distances,” the girl said, thought- 
fully. ” Waiting here or there for fine weather, do you see, moth- 
er? For example, we would not set out at this moment, for the 
winds are boisterous and cold. And then, mother, if there is fatigue 
— if you are very tired with the journey, think of the long rest and 
idleness at Nice — and the soft air.” 

“ Very well, Yolande; whatever you do will be right. And 1 am 
ready to set out with you whenever you please.” 

Yolande now set about making final preparations for leaving Eng- 
land, and amongst the first of these was the writing a letter to Mrs. 
Bell. It was little more than a message of good-by; but still she in- 
timated that she should be glad to hear how affairs were going on at 
Gress, and also what was being done about Monaglen. And she 
begged Mrs Bell’s acceptance of the accompanying bits of lace, 
which she had picked up at some charitable institution in the neigh- 
borhood, and which she thought would look nice on black silk. 

The answer, which arrived speedily, was as follows: 

“ Gress, the \Wi November. 

‘‘ My dear young Lady, — It was a great honor to me to receive 
the letter from you this morning, and a great pleasure to me to 
know that you are well, this leaving us all here in the same. May 
be I would have taken the liberty to write to you before now, but 
that I had not your address, and Duncan, the keeper, was ignorant 
of it. And I had a mind to ask the lion. Mrs. Graham, seeing her 
drive past one day on her return; but they glaiket lassies that were 
to have told me when they saw her come along the road again were 
forgetful, as usual, and so I missed the opportunity. My intention 
was to tell you about Monaglen, which you are so kind as to ask 
about. It is all settled now, and the land made over to its rightful 
possessor; and I may say that when the Lord, in His good time, sees 
fit to take me, I will close my eyes in peace, knowing that I have 
done better with what was intrusted to me than otherwise might 
have happened. But in the meantime my mind is ill at ease, and I 
am not thankful for such mercies as have been vouchsafed me, be- 
cause I would fain have Mr. Melville informed of what has been 
done, and yet not a word dare I speak. At the best he is a by-ordi- 
nar proud, camstrary man; but ever since he has come back this 
last time he is more unsettled and distant like — not conversing with 
people, as was his custom, but working at all kinds of hours, as if 
his life depended on they whigmaleeries; and then again away over 
the hills and moors by himself, without even the pastime of fishing 
that used to occupy him. Deed, I tried once to tell him, but my 


YOLANDE. 


301 

brain got into a kind of whummle; I could not get out a word; and 
as he was like to think me an idiwut, I made some excuse about the 
school -laddies, and away he went. Howsever, what’s done cannot 
be undone. The lawyers vouch for that; and a pretty penny they 
charged me. But Monaglen is his, to have and to hold whether he 
will or no. and the Melvilles have got their aiu again, as the song 
says. And if any one tells me that I could have done better with the 
money I will not gainsay them, for there are wiser heads than mine 
in the world; but I will say that I had the right to do what pleased 
myself with what belonged to me. 

“Many's the lime 1 wish that I had an intervener that would tell 
him of it, and take the task off my hands; for 1 am sore afraid that 
did I do it myself. Laving little skill of argument or persuasion, he 
would just be off in a fluff, and no more to be said. For that mat- 
ter, I might be content with things as they are, knowing that his 
father’s land would go to him when my earthly pilgrimage was 
come to an end; but sometimes my heart is grieved for the poor 
lad, when I’m thinking (hat may be he is working early and late, and 
worrying himself into a whey-faced conditiou. to secure a better 
future for himself, when the future is sure enough if he only kenned. 
Besides that, I jalouse there’s a possibility of his going away again; 
for I see there are bits of things, that he put together on the day 
when you, dear young lad 3 ^ left Allt-nam-ba, that he has not un- 
packed again; and he has engaged the young lad Dalrymple at a 
permanent wage now', seeing that the chiel does very w'ell with the 
schoolbairns—though I envy not the mother that had to keep him 
in porridge when he w^'as a laddie. Now that is how we are situ- 
ated here, my dear young lady, since you have been so kind as to 
remember us; and I would fain be asking a little more new's about 
yourself if it was not making bold, for many’s the time I have 
wondered whether ye would come back again to Allt-nam-ba. It is 
a rough place for gentle nurtured people, and but little companion- 
ship for a young lady; but I heard tell the shooting was good, and 
if the gentlemen are coming back I hope 3 'ou’ll no be kept away by 
the roughness of the place, for I’m sure I would like to have a 
glint of your face again. And I would say my thanks for the collar 
and cuffs in that beautiful fine lace, but indeed there is more in my 
heart than the tongue can speak. It is just too good of ye; and 
although such things are far too fine for an old woman like me, still 
I’m thinking I’ll be putting them on next Sabbath morning, just to 
see if Mr. Melville will be asking if I have taken leave of my five 
senses. But he has not been familiar like since his coming back, 
which is a sorrow to me, that must keep my tongue tied when I 
would fain speak. 

“ This is all at present, dear young lady, from your humble serv- 
ant, Christina Bell.” 

For one breathless second it flashed across Tolande’s brain that 
she would become the “ intervener.’’ Would it not be a friendly 
thing to do, as she was leaving England, to write and tell him, and 
to lay an injunction on him not to disappoint this kind creature’s 
hopes? But then she turned away. The past was past. Her inter- 
ests and duties were here. And so— with something of a sigh, per- 


302 


YOLANDE. 


haps — she took to the immediate business of getting ready for the 
journey; and had everything so prepared that they were ready to 
start at a moment’s notice, whenever the weather was propitious. 

And, indeed, they had fixed definitely the day of their departure, 
when, on the very night before, the varying northerly winds, that 
had been blowing with more or less of bitterness for some time, cul 
minated in a gale. It was an unusual quarter — most of the gales on 
that part of the coast coming from the south and the southwest; and 
all the same the wind during the night blew with the force of a hur- 
ricane, and the whole house shook and trembled. Then, in the 
morning, what was their astonishment to find the sunlight pouring 
in at the parlor wdndow^s; and outside, the world white and hushed 
under a sheet of dazzling snow! That is to say, as much of the 
world as was visible — the pavement, and the street, and the prome- 
nade, and the beach; beyond that the wind-ruffled bosom of the sea 
was dark and sullen in comparison with this brilliant wfflite wonder 
lying all around. And still the northerly gale blew hard; and one 
after another strangely dark clouds were blown across the sky; 
until, as they got far enough to the south, the suu would shine 
through them with a strange coppery luster, and then would dis' 
appear altogether, and the dark sea would become almostblack. And 
then again the fierce "w ind would hurry on the smoke-colored pall to 
the horizon; and there would be glimpses of a pale blue sky flecked 
with streaks of white; and the brilliant sunlight would be all around 
them once more on the boats and the shingle and the railings and 
the snow-whitened streets. 

Now Yolande’s mother was strangely excited by the scene; for it 
confirmed her in a curious fancy she had formed that during all the 
time she had been under the influence of those drugs she had been 
living in a dream, and that she was now making the acquaintance 
again of the familiar features of the world as she once had known 
them. 

“ It seems years and years since 1 saw the snow,” she said, look- 
ing on the shining while world in a mild entrancement of delight. 
” Oh, Yolande, I should like to see the falling snow — I should like 
to feel it on my hands.” 

‘‘You are likely to see it soon enough, mother,” said the girl, 
who had noticed how from time to time the thick clouds going over 
shrouded everything in an ominous gloom. ‘‘ In the meantime, I 
shall go round after breakfast and tell Mr. Watherston not to send 
the carriage; we can’t start in a snow-storm.” 

‘‘ But why not send Jane. Yolande? It will be bitterly cold 
outside.” 

‘‘ I suppose it will be no colder for me than for her,” Yolande 
said. And then she added, with a smile of confession, ‘‘ besides I 
want to see what everything looks like.” 

” Will you let me go with you? May I?” said the mother, wist- 
fully. 

“You?” said Yolande, laughing. ‘‘Yes, that is likely— that is 
very likely/ You are in good condition to face a gale from'the north- 
east, and walk through snow at the same time.” 

When Yolande w^ent out she found it was bitterly cold, even 
though the terrace of houses sheltered her frcm the northeast wind. 


YOLANDE. 


303 

She walked quickly — and even with a kind of exhilaration, for this 
new thin^ in the world was a kind of excitement; and when she had 
gone and delivered her message, she thought she would have a turn 
or two up and down the pier, for there the snow had been in a 
measure swept from the planks, and there was freer walking. 
Moreover she had the w'hole promenade to herself, and when she 
got to the end she could turn to find before her the spectacle of the 
long line of coast and the hills inland all whitened with the snow, 
while around her the sullen hued sea seemed to shiver under the gust 
of wind that swept down on it. Walking back was not so comfort- 
able as walking out; nevertheless, she look another turn or two, for 
she knew that if the snow began to fall she might be imprisoned for 
the day; and she enjoyed all the natural delight of a sound consti- 
tution in brisk exercise. She had to walk smartly to withstand the 
cold, and the fight against the wind was something; altogether, she 
•remained on the pier longer than she had intended. 

Then something touched her cheek, and stung her, as it were. 
She turned and looked; soft white flakes — a few of them only, but 
they were large — were coming fluttering along and past her; and 
here and there one alighted on her dress like a moth, and hung there. 
It was strange, for the sunlight was shining all around her, and there 
were no very threatening clouds visible over the land. But they 
grew more and more frequent; they lit on her hair, and she took 
them off; they lit on her eyelashes, and melted moist and cold into 
her eyes; at length they had given a fairly white coating to the front 
of her dress, and so she made up her mind to make for home, 
through this bewilderment of snow and sunlight. It was a kind of 
fairy thing as yet, and wonderful and beautiful; but she knew very 
well that as soon as the clouds had drifted over far enough to obscure 
the sun, it would look much less wonderful and supernatural, and 
she would merely be making her way through an ordinary and some- 
what heav}» fall of snow. 

But when she got near to the house something caught her eye 
there that filled her with a sudden dismay. Her mother was stand- 
ing in the balcony, and she had her hands outstretched as if she were 
taking a childish delight in feeling the flakes fall on her fingers; and 
when she saw Yolande she waved a pleasant recognition to her. 
Yolande — sick at heart with dread — hurried to the door, and up 
stairs when she got in, and rushed to the balcony. She was breath- 
less; she could not speak; she could only seize her mother by the 
arm, and drag her into the room. 

“ Why, what is it, Yolande?” the mother said. ”1 saw you 
coming through the snow. Isn’t it beautiful— beautiful! It looks 
like dreams and pictures of long ago— I have not felt snow on my 
hands and my hair for so many and many years ” 

” How could you be so imprudent, mother!” the girl said, when 
she had got breath. ‘‘And without a shawl! Where was Jane? 
To stand out in the snow 

‘‘ It was only for a minute, Y'olande,” said she, while the girl 
was dusting the snow from her mother’s shoulders and arms with 
her pocket-handkerchief. ‘‘It was only fora minute— and it was 
so strange to see snow'^ again.” 

‘‘ But why did you go out?— why did you go out?” the girl re- 


304 


YOLANDE. 


peated. '* On a bitterly cold morning like this, and bare-headed 
and bare-necked!” 

” Well, yes, it is cold outside,” she said, with an involuntary 
shiver. ” I did not think it would be so cold. There, that will do, 
Yolande; 1 will sit down by the fire, and get warm again.” 

” What you ought to do is to have some hot brandy and water, 
and go to bed, and have extra blankets put over you,” said 
Yolande, promptly. 

” Oh no; I shall be warm again directly,” said she, though she 
shivered slightly, as she got into the easy-chair by the fire, and 
began chafing her hands, which were red and cold with the wet 
snow. ” It was too much of a temptation, Yolande— that is the 
fact. It was making the acquaintance of the snow again.” 

” It was more like making the acquaintance of a bad cold,” said 
Yolande, sharply. 

However, she* got some thick ^awls and put them round her 
mother, and the shivering soon ceased. She stirred up the fire, and 
brought her some illustrated papers, and then went away to get 
some things out again from the portmanteaus, for it was clearly no 
use thinking of traveling in this weather. It had settled down to 
snowing heavily; the skies were dark; there was no more of the 
fairy-land performance of the morning; and so Yolande set about 
making themselves as comfortable as possible within doors, leaving 
their future movements to be decided by such circumstances as 
should arise. 

But during that evening Yolande’s mother seemed somewhat de- 
pressed, and also a little bit feverish and uncomfortable. 

‘‘ I should not w'^onder if you were going to have a very bad cold, 
mother,” the girl said. ” I should not wonder if you had caught a 
chill by going out on the balcony.” 

” Nonsense, nonsense, child; it was only for a minute or so.” 

” I wish you would take something hot before going to bed, 
mother. Port-wine negus is good, is it not? I do not know 1 
have only heard. Or hot whisky and water? Mr. Shortlands had 
three tumblers of it after he fell into the Uisgenan-Sithean, and bad 
to walk the long distance home in wet clothes; and the rugs and 
shawls we had put on his bed— oh, it is impossible to tell the num- 
ber.” 

” No, never mind, Yolande,” the mother said. ” I would rather 
not have any of these things. But 1 am a little tired. I think I will 
go to bed now; and perhaps Jane could ask for an extra blanket for 
me. Y'ou need not be alarmed. If I have caught a slight cold — 
well, you say we ought not to start in such weather in any case.” 

‘‘ Shall 1 come and read to you, mother?” 

“No, no; why should you trouble? Besides, 1 am rather tired; 
most likely I shall go to sleep. Now I will leave you to your novel 
about the Riviera; and you must draw in your chair to the fire; and 
soon you will have forgotten that there is such a thing as snow’” 

And so they bade good night to each other, and Yolande was not 
seriously disturbed. 


YOLANDE. 


305 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

A MEETING. 

But next morning the mother was ill— nay, as Yolande in her first 
alarm imagined, seriously ill. She could hardly speak; her hands 
and forehead were hot and feverish; she would take nothing in the 
shape of breakfast; she only turned away her head languidly. 
Yolande was far too frightened to stay and consult her mother’s nerv- 
ous fancies or dislikes; a doctor was sent for instantlj— the same 
doctor, in fact, who had been called in before. And when this 
portly, rubicund, placid person arrived his mere presence in the 
room seemed to introduce a measure of calm into the atmosphere; 
and that was well. He was neither excited nor alarmed. He made 
the usual examination, asked a few questions, and gave some general 
and sufiBciently sensible directions as to how the patient should be 
tended. And then he said he would write out a prescription — for 
this practitioner, in common with most of his kind, had retained that 
simple and serene faith in the efiicacy of drugs which has survived 
centuries of conflicting theories, contradictions in fact, and scientifle 
doubt, and which is perhaps more beneficial than otherwise to the 
human race, so long as the quantities prescribed are so small as to do 
no positive harm. It was aconite, this time, that he chose to experi- 
ment with. 

However, when he followed Yolande into the other room, in order 
to get writing materials, and when he sal down and began to talk to 
her, it was clear that he understood the nature of the case well 
enough; and he plainly intimated to her that, wdieii a severe (diill 
like this had caught the system and promised to produce a high state 
of fever, the result depended mainly on the power of the constitution 
to repel the attack and fight its way back to health. 

“ Now I suppose I may speak frankly to you. Miss Winter- 
bourne?” said he. 

” Oh yes; why not?” said Yolande, who was far loo anxious to 
care about formalities. 

” You must remember, then, that though you have only seen me 
once before, I have seen you twice. The first lime you were insen- 
sible. Now,” said he, tixing'his eyes on her, “ on that occasion I 
was told a little, but I guessed more. It was to frighten your mother 
out of the habit that you took your first dose of that patent medicine. 
May I assume that?” 

” Well, yes,” said Yolande, with downcast eyes — though, indeed, 
there was nothing to be ashamed of. 

“ Now, I want you to tell me honestly whether you believe that 
warning had effect.” 

” Indeed, I am sure of it,” said Yolande, looking up and speaking 
with decision. 

‘‘You think that since then she has not had recourse to any of 
those opiates?” 

‘‘lam positively certain of it,” Y'olande said to him. 


306 


YOLAHDE. 


1 suppose being deprived of them cost the poor lady a struggle?" 
he asked. 

“Yes, once or twice — but that was some time ago. Latterly she 
Was growing ever so much more bright and cheerful, but still she 
was weak, and I was hesitating aboiit risking the long journey to 
the south of France. Yes, it is 1 that am to blame. Why did 1 not 
go sooner? Why did I not go sooner?” she repeated, with tears 
coming into her eyes. 

“Indeed you cannot blame yourself, Miss Winterbourne,” the 
doctor said. “ I have no doubt you acted for the best. The impru- 
dence you tell me of might have happened anywhere. If you keep 
the room warm and equable, your mother will do as well here as in 
the south of France — uutil it is safe for you to remove her.” 

“ But how soon, doctor?— how soon? Oh, when I get a chance 
again I will not wait.” 

“ But you must wait — and you must be patient and careful. It 
will not do to burry matters. Your mother is not strong. The fight 
may be a long one. Now, Miss Winterbourne, you will send and get 
this prescription made up; and 1 will call again in the afternoon.” 

Yolande went back to her mother’s room, and sent away Jane; 
she herself would be nurse. On tiptoe she went about, doing what 
she thought would add to her mother’s comfort; noiselessly tending 
the tire that had been lit, arranging a shutter so that less light should 
come in, and so forth, and so forth. But the confidence inspired by 
the presence of the doctor was gone now; a terrible anxiety had suc- 
ceeded ; and when at last she sat down in the silent room, and felt that 
she could do nothing more, a sense of helplessness, ofjonelines, en- 
tirely overcame her, and she was ready to despair, w'hy had she 
not gone away sooner, before this terrible thing happened? Why 
had she delayed? They might now have been walking happily to- 
gether along some sunny promenade iu the South — instead of this — 
this hushed and darkened room; and the poor invalid, whom she had 
tended so carefully, and who seemed to be emerging into a new life 
altogether, thus thrown back and rendered once more helpless. 
Why had she gone out on that fatal morning? W hy had she left her 
mother alone? If she had been in the room there would have been 
no venturing into the snow, whatever dreams and fancies were call 
ing. If she had but taken courage and set out for the South a week 
sooner — a day sooner — this would not have happened, and it seemed 
so hard that when she had almost secured the emancipation of her 
mother— when the undertaking on which she had entered with so 
much of fear, and wonder, and hope was near to being crowned 
with success — the work should be undone by so trifiing an acci- 
dent. She was like to despair. 

But patience — patience— she said to herself. She had been warned, 
before she had left Scotland, that it was no light matter that lay be- 
fore her. If she was thrown back into prison, as it were, at this mo- 
ment, the door would be opened some day. And, indeed, it was 
not of her own liberty she was thinking— it was the freedom of light 
and life and cheerfulness that she had hoped to secure for this stricken 
and hapless creature whom fortune had not over well treated. 

Her mother stirred, and instantly she went to the bedside. 


YOLAKDE. 307 

“ What does the doctor say, Yolande?” she asked, apparently with 
some difficulty. 

“ Only what every one sees,” she said, with such cheerfulness as 
was possible. ” Y'ou have caught a bad cold, and you are feverish; 
but you must do everything that we want you to do, and you will 
light it off in time.” 

” What kind of a day is it outside?” she managed to ask again. 

‘‘It is line, but cold. There has been some more snow in the 
night.” 

‘‘ If you wish to go out, go out, Yolande. Don’t mind me.” 

‘‘ But I am going to mind you. mother, and nobody else. Here 1 
am. here 1 stay, till you are well again. You shall have no other 
nurse.” 

” You will make yourself ill, Yolande. You must go out.” 

She was evidently speaking with great difficulty. 

” Hush, mother, hush!” the girl said; ” I am going to stay with 
you. You should not talk any more — it pains you, does it not?” 

‘‘A little.” And then she turned awa^ her head again. “Ifl 
don’t speak to you, Yolande, don’t think it is unkind of me. I — I 
am not very well, 1 think.” 

And so the room was given over to silence again, and the girl to 
anxious thoughts as to the future. She had resolved not to write to 
her father until she should know more definitely. She would not 
unnecessarily alarm him. At first, in her sudden alarm, she had 
thought of summoning him at once; but novv she had determined to 
wait until the doctor had seen her mother again. If this were not 
only a bad cold, and should show symptoms of disappearing, then 
she could send him a reassuring message. At present she was far 
too upset, and anxious, and disturbed to carefully weigh her expres- 
sions. 

About noon Jane stole silently into the room, and handed her a 
letter, and withdrew again. Yolande was startled when she'glanced 
at the handwriting, and hastily opened the envelope. The letter 
came from Inverness, and was dated the morning of the previous 
(lay: that was all she noted carefully — the rest seemed to swim into 
her consciousness all at once, she ran her eye over the successive 
lines so rapidly, and with such breathless agitation. 

‘‘ My DEAR Yolande,” JacK Melville wrote,— I shall reach 
Worthing just about the same time as this letter. I am coming to 
ask you for a single word. Archie Leslie has told me — (juite 
casually, in a letter about other things — that you are no ledger en- 
gaged to him; and 1 have dared to indulge in some vague hopes — 
well, it is for you to tell me to put them aside forever, or to let them 
remain, and see what the future has in store. That is all. 1 don't 
wish to interfere with your duties of the moment — how should 1? — 
but 1 cannot rest until I ascertain from yourself whether or no I may 
look forward to some distant time, and hope. I am coming on the 
chance of your not having left Worthing. Perhaps you may not 
have left; and 1 beg of your kindness to let me see you, for ever so 
short a time.” 

She quickly and quietly went to the door and opened it. Her face 
was very pale. 


YOLAKDE. 


:]08 


“Jane!” 

The maid was standing at the window, looking out; she immedi- 
ately turned and came to her mistress. 

“ You remember, Mr. Melville, who used to come to the lodge?” 

“Oh yes, miss.” 

“ He will be in Worthing to-day— he will call here— perhaps 
soon ” 

She paused for a second in this breathless, despairing way of talk- 
ing, as if not knowing what to say. 

“ He will ask to see me — well — you will tell him I cannot see him. 
1 cannot see him. My mother is ill. Tell him 1 am sorry — but I 
cannot see him.” 

“Oh, yes, miss,” said the girl, wondering at her young mistress's 
agitation. 

Then Yolande quietly slipped into the room again — glancing at 
her mother, to see whether her absence had been noticed; and her 
hand was clutching the letter, and her heart beating violently. It 
was too terrible that he should arrive at such a moment — amid this 
alarm and anxiety. She could not bear the thought of meeting him. 
Already she experienced a sort of relief that she was in the sick- 
room again; that was her place; there her duties lay. And so she 
sat in the still and darkened room, listening with a sort of dread for 
the ring at the bell below; and then picturing to herself his going 
away ; and then thinking of the years to come, and perhaps his meet- 
ing her; and she grew to fancy (while some tears were stealing down 
her cheeks) that ver}^ likely he would not know her again when he 
saw her, for she knew that already her face was more worn than it 
used to be, and the expression of the eyes changed. When she did 
hear the ring at the bell her heart leaped as if she had been shot; but 
she breathed more freel^^ when the door was shut again. She could 
imagine him walking along the pavement. Would he think her 
unkind? Perhaps he would understand? At all events, it was bet- 
ter that he was gone; it was a relief to her; and she went stealthily 
to the bedside, to see whether her nrother was asleep; and now all 
her anxiety was that the doctor should make his appearance soon, 
and give her some words of cheer, so that she should have no need 
to write to her father. 

This was what happened when Melville came to the door. To 
begin with, he was not at all sure that he should find Yolande there, 
for he had heard from Mrs. Bell that she and her mother were leav- 
ing England. But when Jane, in response to his ringing of the bell 
opened the door, then he knew that they were not gone. 

“Miss Winterbourne is still here, then?” he said, quickly, and 
indeed with some appearance of anxiety in the pale, handsome face. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

He paused for a second. 

“ Will you be good enough to ask her if 1 can see her for a 
moment?” he said, at length. “ She knows that I meant to call on 
her. ’ ’ 

“ Please, sir. Miss Winterbourne told me to say that she was very 
sorry, but that she cannot see you.” 

He seemed as one stupefied for a moment. 

“ Her mother is ill, sir,” said Jane. 


YOLANDE. 309 

“ Oh,” he said, a new light breaking in on him — for indeed that 
first blunt refusal, as uttered by the maid, was bewildering. 

” Not very ill, is she?” 

Well, sir,” said Jane, in the same stolid fashion, ” I think she 
is very ill, sir, but 1 would not say so to my young mistress, sir.” 

” Of course not — of course not,” he said, absently; and then he 
suddenly asked, ” Has Miss Winterbourne sent for her father?” 

” I think not, sir. 1 think she is waiting to hear what the doctor 
says.” 

“Who is the doctor?” 

She gave him both the name and address. 

” Thank you,” said he. ” I wdll not trouble Miss Winterbourne 
with any message.” And with that he left. 

But he sent her a message — some half hour thereafter. It was 
merely this: 

” Deab Yolande, — I am deeply grieved to have intruded upon 
you at such a time. Forgive me. 1 hope to hear better news;' but 
do not you trouble; 1 have made arrangements so that 1 shall know. 

“J. M.” 

And Yolande put that note with the other — for in truth she had 
carefully preserved every scrap of writing that he had ever sent her; 
and it w^as with a wistful kind of satisfaction that at least he had 
gone away her friend, ll was something— nay, it was enough. If 
all that she wished for in this world could get so near to completion 
as this, then she would ask for nothing more. 

The doctor did not arrive till nearly three o’clock, and she awaited 
his verdict with an anxiety amounting to distress. But he would 
say nothing definite. The fever had increased, certainly; but that 
was to be expected. She reported to him — as minutely as her agita- 
tion allowed — how his d.rections had been carried out in the inter- 
val, and. he approved. Then he begged her not to be unduly 
alarmed, for this fever was the common attendant on the catching 
of a sudden chill; and with similar vague words of reassurance he 
left. 

But the moment he had gone she sat down and wrote to her 
father. Fortunately Mr. Winterbourne happened at the moment to 
be in London, for he had come up to make inquiries about some rail- 
way project that his constituents wished him to oppose next session; 
and he was at the hotel in Arlington Street that Yolande knew. 

” Dear Papa,” she said,—” We did not leave yesterday as I said 
we should, for the weather was so severe I was afraid to take the 
risk. And now another thing has occurred: my dear mother has 
caught a very bad cold, and is feverish with it, so that I have called 
in the doctor. I hope it will soon go away, and we will be able to 
make the voyage that was contemplated. Alas! it is a misfortune 
that there was any delay. Now, dear papa, you said that you were 
anxious to be of service to us; and if your business in town is over, 
could you spare a few days to come and stay at a hotel, in Worth- 
ing, merely that I may know you are there, which will reassure me, 
for ’l am nervous and anxious, and probably imagining danger when 
there is none? As for your coming here— no, that is not to be 


YOLAN'DE. 


310 

thought of; it would agitate my dear mother beyond expression, and 
now more than ever we have to secure for her repose and quiet. 
Will it inconvenience you to come for a few days to a hotel? Your 
loving daughter, 

“ Yolande Winterbourne.” 

Mr. Winterbourne came down next morning — rather guessing that 
the matter was more serious than the girl had represented — and went 
straight to the house. He sent for Jane, and got it arranged that, 
while she took Y'olande's place in the sick-room for a few minutes, 
Yolande should come down stairs and see him in the ground floor 
parlor, which was unoccupierl. It is to be remembered that he had 
not seen his daughter since she left the Highlands. 

When Yolande came into the room his eyes lighted up with glad- 
ness; but the next minute they were dimmed with tears— and the 
hands that took hers were trembling — and he could hardly speak. 

‘‘Child, child,” said he, in a second or so, ‘‘how 3^11 are 
changed! You are not well. Yolande: have you been ill?” 

‘‘ Oh no, papa, I am perfectly well.” 

The strange seriousness of her face! — where was the light-hearted 
child whose laugh used to be like a ray of sunlight? She led him to 
the window; and she spoke in a low voice, so that no sound should 
carry. 

‘‘ Papa, 1 want you to call on the doctor, and get his real opinion. 
It tortures me to think that he may be concealing something; I sit 
and imagine it; sometimes I think he has not told me all the truth. 
1 want to know the truth, papa. Will you ask him?’*’ 

‘‘ Yes, yes, child — I will do whatever you want.” said he. still 
holding her hand, and regarding her with all the old affection and 
admiration. ‘‘Ah, your face is changed a little, Y^olande, but not 
much, not much — oh, no, not much; but your voice hasn’t changed 
a bit. I have been wondering this many a day when I should hear 
you talking to me again.” 

‘‘ Never mind about me, papa,” said she quickly. ‘‘ 1 will give 
you the doctor’s address. Which hotel are you staying at?” 

He told her as she was writing the doctor’s address for him on a 
card; and then, with a hurried kiss, she was away again to the sick- 
room, and sending Jane down to open the door for him. ' 

As Y'olande had desired, he went and saw the doctor, who spoke 
mwc plainly to him than he had done to the girl of the possible 
danger of such an attack, but also said that nothing could be defi- 
nitely predicted as 3 'et. It was a question of the strength of the 
constitution. Mr. Winterbourne told him frankly who he was, 
what his position was, and the whole sad story; and the doctor per- 
fectly agreed w'ith Yolande that it was most unadvisable to risk the 
agitation likely to be produced if the poor woman were to be con- 
fronted with her husband. Any messages he might wish to send (in 
the event of her becoming worse) could be taken to her; they might 
give her some mental rest and solace; but for the present the knowd- 
edge of his being in Worthing was to be kept from her. And to 
this Mr. Winterbourne agreed, though he would fain have seen a lit- 
tle more of Y'olande. Many a time— indeed, every day— he w^alked 
up and dow n the promenade, despite the coldness of the weather, 


YOLANDE. 


311 

and always with the hope that he might catch some glimise of her at 
the window, should she come for a moment to look at the outer 
world and the wide sea. Once or twice he did so catch sight of her, 
and the day was brighter after that. It was like a lover. 

As the days passed the fever seemed to abate somewhat, but an 
alarming prostration supervened. At length the doctor said, on one 
occasion when Mr. Winterbourne had called on him for news. 

“ 1 think, Mr. Winterbourne, if you have no objection, I should 
like to have a consultation on this case. I am afraid there is some 
complication.” 

” I hope you will have the best skill that London can afford,” said 
Mr. Winterbourne, anxiously; for although the doctor rather avoid- 
ed looking him in the face, the sound of this phrase was ominous. 

” Shall 1 ask Sir to come down?” he said, naming one of the 

most famous London physicians. 

” By all means! And, whatever you do, don’t alarm my daugh- 
ter! — try to keep her mind at rest — say it is a technical point — say 
anything — but don’t frighten her." 

” I will do my best,” the doctor promised; and he added, ” 1 will 
say this for the young lady, that she has shown a devotion and a 
fortitude that I have never seen equaled in any sick-room, and I 
have been in practice now for two-and thirty years.” 

But all the skill in London or anywhere else could not have saved 
this poor victim from the fatal (consequences of a few moments’ 
thoughtlessness. The wasted and enfeebled constitution had suc- 
cumbed. But her brain remained clear; and as long as she could 
hold Yolande’s hand, or even see the girl walking about the room or 
seated in a chair, she was content. 

” I don’t mind dying now,” she said, or rather whispered, on one 
occasion. ” 1 have seen 5 'ou, and known you; you have been with 
me for awhile. It was like an angel that you came to me;Jt was an 
angel who sent you to me. 1 am reg4y to go now.” 

“ Mother, you must not talk like* that!” the girl exclaimed. 
‘‘Why, the nonsense of it! How long, then, do you expect me to 
be kept waiting for you before we can start for B.)rdighera together?” 

” We shall never be at Bordighera together,” the mother said, 
absently — “never! never! But you may be, Yolande; and I hope 
you wiil be happy there, and always; for you deserve to be. Ah 
yes, you will be happy — surely it cannot be otherwise — you, so beau- 
tiful and so noble-hearted.” 

And at last Yolande grew to fear the worst. One evening she had 
sent for her father; and she went down stairs and found him in the 
sitting-room. 

” Yolande, you are as white as a ghost.” 

“Papa,” she said, keeping a tight guard over herself, “1 want 
you to come up stairs with me. 1 have told my mother you were 
coming. She will see you; she is grab ful to you for the kind mes- 
sages 1 have taken to her. I— I have not asked the doctors— but— I 
wish you to come with me. Do not speak to her— it is only to see 
you that she wants. ” 

He followed her up the stairs; but he entered first into the room, 
and he went over to the bedside and took his wife’s hand, without 
a word. The memories of a lifetime were before him as he regarded 


312 


YOLAi^BE. 


the emaciated cheek, and the strangely large and brilliant eyes; but 
all the bitterness was over and gone now. 

“ George," said she, “ I wished to make sure you had forgiven 
me, and to say good by. You have been mother as well as father to 
Yolande — she loves you You — you will take care of her.” 

She closed her eyes, as if the effort to speak had overcome her; 
but he still held his wife’s hand in his; and perhaps he was thinking 
of what had been, and of what — far otherwise — might have been. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

HOME. 

It was in the month of January following, when the white thor- 
oughfares of Rome were all shining- clear in the morning sunlight, 
that Yolande Winterbourne stood in the spacious vestibule of the 
Hotel du Quirinal, waiting while her father read a letter that had 
just been given him. She was dressed in deep mourning; and per- 
haps that only heightened the contrast between the clearness and 
brightness of her EngHsh-looking complexion and ruddy golden hair, 
and the sallow, foreign-looking faces around. And if the ordeal 
through which she had passed had altered her expression somewhat 
— if it had robbed her forever of the light laughter and the careless- 
ness of her girlhood — it had left in their stead a sweet seriousness of 
womanhood that some people found lovable enough. It was not her 
father only who saw and was charmed by this grave gentleness of 
look, as an odd incident in this very hotel proved. At the time of 
the Winterbournes’ arrival in Rome there happened to be there — 
and also staying at the Quirinal Hotel — a famous French painter. 
Of course every one in the hotel knew who he was, and every one 
pretended not to know, for he seemed to wish to be alone; and he 
* was so hard at work, that when he came in for his midday meal — 
which was of the most frugal kind — he rarely spent more than ten or 
twelve minutes over it, and then he was off a^ain, only pausing to 
light a cigarette in the corridor. Well, one day the Winterbournes 
went as usual into the winter-garden saloon of the hotel to have a bit 
of lunch, for they were going for a drive somew^here in the after- 
noon, and they were just about to sit down at their accustomed 
table, when the famous artist rose from his table and approached 
them. He was a little man, with a boyish face, but with careworn 
eyes; his manner was grave, and yet pleasant. 

” Pardon me, sir, the liberty; but may 1 present myself to you?” 
said he, in the queerest of pronunciations — and he held a card be- 
tween his finger and thumb. 

” You do me a great honor, monsieur,” said Mr. Winterbourne, 
with a low’ bow, and addressing him in his own tongue; and he 

managed dexterously’ to hint that Monsieur had no need of a 

visiting card with which to introduce himself. 

Meanwhile Yolande had turned aside, under pretense of taking ofl 
her bonnet; and the great artist, without any circumlocution, told 
her father what was the object of his thus desiring to make their ac- 
quaintance. He was painting a religious subject, he said, which 


YOLANDE. 


313 

had great difficulties for him. He had observed mademoiselle from 
time to time. She had so noble an air, an expression so lender, so 
Madonna-like! All that he wanted, if the father would grant the 
request, was to be permitted to sit at their table for a few minutes— 
to observe more closely, to find out what was the peculiar charm of 
expression. Would monsieur forgive a painter, who could only 
plead that it was in the interest of his art that he made so bold a re- 
quest? 

Mr. Winterbourne not only gladly assented, but was greatly flat- 
tered to hear such praise of Yolande from so distinguished a man; 
and so she was immediately summoned, and introduced, and they all 
three sat down to the little table, and had their lunch together. Yo- 
lande was in happy ignorance that she was being studied or ex- 
amined in any way whatever; and he took good care not to let her 
know. This little, sad eyed man proved a cheerful enough com- 
panion. He talked about anything and everything; and on one oc- 
casion Yolande had the li-appiness of being able to adil to his knowl- 
edge. He was saying how the realistic decorations on the walls of 
this saloon— the blue skies, the crystal globes filled with swimming 
fish and suspended m mid-air, the painted balconies, and shrubs, and 
what not — would shock the severe theorists who mainlain that in 
decoration natural objects should be represented only in a conven- 
tional manner; and he was saying that nevertheless this literal copy- 
ing of things for the purposes of decoration had a respectable an- 
tiquity — as doubtless mademoiselle had observed in the houses of 
Pompeii, where all kinds of tricks in perspective appeared on flat 
surfaces — and that it had a respectable authority— as doubtless 
mademoiselle had observed in the Loggie, where Raphael had paint- 
ed birds, beasts, or fishes, anything that came ready to his hand 
or his head, as faithfully and minutely as drawing and color could 
reproduce them. 

“ I saw another thing than that at Pompeii, ’ said she, with a 
slight smile. 

“ Yes?'’ he said; and she did not know that all the time he was 
regarding the beautiful curve of the short upper lip, and observing 
how easily the slight pensive droop of it could be modulated into a 
more cheerful expression. 

“ I had always imagined,” said she, ” that veneering and wicked- 
ness like that were quite modern inventions. Don’t they say so? 
Don’t they say that it is modern depravity that paints common wood 
to make it like oak, and paints plaster to resemble marble? But in 
Pompeii you will also find that wickedness— yes, I assure you, I 
found in more than one house beautiful black marble with yellow 
or white veins— so like real marble that one would not suspect — but 
if you examined it where it was broken you would find it was only 
plaster, or a soft gray stone, painted over.” 

” Indeed, mademoiselle,” said he, laughing, “they were a wicked 
people who lived in Pompeii; but 1 did not know they did anything 
so dreadful as that.” 

This was the beginning of an acquaintanceship that lasted during 
their stay in Rome, but was limited to this brief clnit in the middle 
of the day ; for the famous Frenchman was the most devoted of work- 
ers. And then, when he heard that the Winterbournes were likely 


314 


YeOLAKDE. 


to leave Rome, be besought the father to allow Yolande to give two 
or three sittings to a young American artist, a friend of his, who was 
clever at pastels, and" had a happy knack in catching a likeness. As 
it turned out that M. did not wish merely to procure a commis- 

sion for his brother-artist, but wanted to have the sketch of the 
beautiful young English lady for himself, Mr. Winterbourne hesi- 
tated, but Yolande volunteered at once, and cheerfully; for they 
had already visited the young American's studio, and been allowed 
to hunt through his very considerable coWecimn olbric-d hrac — East- 
ern costumes, old armor, musical instruments, Moorish tiles, and the 
like. It was an amusement added to the occupations of the day. 
Besides, there was one of the moat picturesque views in Rome from 
the windows of that lofty garret. And so Yolande sat contentedly, 
trying the strings of this or that fifteenth-century lute, while the 
young American was working away with his colored chalks; and 
Mr. Winterbourne, having by accident discovered the existence, 
hitherto unsuspected, of a curious stiletto in the hollow handle of a 
Persian war-ax, now found an additional interest in rummaging 
among the old weapons which lay or hung everywhere about the 
studio. 

And so we come back to the morning on which Yolande was 
standing at the entrance to the hotel waiting for her father to read 
his letter. When he had ended he came along briskly to her, and 
put his arm within hers. 

“Now, Yolande,” said he, “do you think Mr. Meteyard could 
get that portrait of you finished ofi to-day? Bless my soul, it wasn’t 
to have been a i)ortrait at all!— it was only to have been a sketch. 
And he has kept on niggling and niggling away at it — why? Well, 
1 don’t know why — unless ” 

But he did not utter the suspicion that had crossed his mind once 
or twice. It was to the effect that Mr. Meteyard did not particularly 
want to finish the sketch, but would rather have the young English 
ladj'^ continue her visits to his studio — where he always had a little 
nosegay of the choicest flowers awaiting her. 

“ What is the hurry, papa?” she said, lightly. 

“ Well, here is a letter from Shortlands. He has just started for 
Venice. If we are to meet him there we should start to-morrow for 
Florence. There isn’t much time left now before the opening of 
Parliament.” 

“Then let us start to-morrow morning,” said she, promptly, 
“ even if I have to sit the whole day to Mr. Meteyard. But I think 
this is the only time we have ever been in Rome without having driv- 
en out to the Baths of Carracalla.” 

“ I have no doubt,” said he, “ that the Baths of Carracalla will 
last until our next visit. So come away, Yolande, and let’s hurry 
up Mr. Meteyard--* yank him along,’ I believe, is the proper 
phrase.” 

So they went out together into the clear white sunlidit. 

“ And"here,” said he, discontentedly, as they were going along the 
street of the Quattro Fontane, “ is Shortlands appoinlina- to meet us 

in Venice at the Hotel, I’m not going to the Hotel; not a 

bit of it!” “ 


YOLANDE. 315 

“ Why, papa, you know that is where Desdemona was buried!” 
she exclaimed. 

“ Don’t 1 know!” said he, with a gloomy sarcasm. ” Can you be 
three miuutes in the place without b^eing perfectly convinced of the 
fact? Oh yes. she was buried there, no doubt. But there was a 
little too much of the lady the last time w'e were there.” 

” Bapa, how can 3 "ou say Unit!” she remonstrated. It isno worse 
than the other ones. And the parapet along tlie Canal is so nice.” 

” 1 am going to Danieli’s,” he said, doggedly. 

” I hope w’e sliall get the same rooms we used to have, with the 
balcony,” said she; “and then we shall see whether the pigeons 
have forgotten all I taught them. Do you remember how cunning 
they became in opening the paper-bags — and in searching for them 
all about the room? Then 1 shouldn’t wonder if we were to see 
Mr. Leslie at Venice. In the last note 1 had from him he said they 
were goinjr there; but he seemed dissatisfied with his companion, 
and 1 do not know v'hether they are still together.” 

“ VVould you liae to meet the Master at Venice?” said he, regard- 
ing her. 

A trifle of color appeared in her cheeks, but she answered, cheer- 
fully. 

“ Oh, yes, very much. It would be like a party of old times — 
Mr. Shortlands, and he, and ourselves, altogether.” 

“ Shortlands has some wonderful project on hand — so he hints 
— but he does not say what it is. But w^e must not attempt too much, 
I am afraid you and 1 are very lazy and idle travelers, Yolande.” 

“ I am afraid so, papa.” 

“At all events,,” said he, as they were going down the steps of 
the Piazza di Spagna — which are no longer, alas! adorned by pictur , 
esque erroups of artists’ models — “ at all events, 1 must be back a 
the beginning of the session. They say the Queen is going to open 
Parliament in person this 3 ear. Now, there would be a sight for 
you! That is a spectacle worth going to see.” 

“ Ah!” she said, with a quick interest, am 1 to be allowed to go 
to the House of Commons after all? Shall I hear you make a 
speech? Shall I be in the grill — it is the grill they call it?” 

“ No, no, you don’t understand, Yolande!” said he. “ It is the 
ceremony of opening Parliament. It is in the House of Lords; 
and the Queen is in her robes; and everybody you ever hear of in 
England is there— all in grand slate. I should get you a ticket, 
b 3 '^ hook or by crook, if I failed at the ballot; 1 heard that oi^e was 
sold for £40 liie last lime — but may be that was a romance. But 1 

remember this for fad. that when ‘Lord returned from abroad, 

and found every available ticket disposed of, and couldn’t get one 
anyhow, he w^as in a desperate state because his wife insisted on 
seeing the show’^; and when he went to an official, and said that, no 

matter how. Lady must and should be admitted, that b’unt- 

spoken person told him that he might as well try to get her ladyship 
into the kingdom of Heaven. But we’il manage it for 3 mu, Yo- 
lande. We’ll take it in time. And if we can’t secure it in any 
other way, we’ll get you into the Reporters’ Gallery, as the repre- 
sentative of a ladies’ new^spaper.” 

Wheu they had climbed up to the altitudes of the young artist’s 


316 


YOLANDE. 


studio, which was situated in one of the narrower streets between 
the Piazza di Spagna and the Corso, they found Mr. Meteyard 
rather dismayed at the prospect of their leaving Rome so soon. It 
was not entirely a question of finishing the portrait. Oh, yes, he said, 
he could get the sketch finished well enough — that is, as well as he 
was likely to be able to do it. But he had no idea that Mr. and 
Miss Winterbourne were going away so soon. Would they dine 
with him at his hotel that evening? He was coming to England 
soon; might he call and see them? And would Mr. Winterbourne 
take with him that Parisian ax in the handle of which he had discov- 
ered the stiletto? And would Miss Winterbourne allow him to 
paint for her a replica of a study of a Roman girl’s head that she 
seemed rather to like, and he would have it forwarded to England, 
and be very proud if she would accept it? 

“ Alas! alas, this youth had been dreaming dreams; and no doubt 
that was the reason of his having dawdled so long over a mere 
sketch in crayons. But he was not wounded unto death. It is true 
he covered himself with reproaches over the insufficiency of the por- 
trait — although it was very cleverly done and an incontestably good 
likeness; and he gave them at his hotel that evening a banquet con- 
siderably beyond what a young painter is ordinarily supposed to be 
able to afford; and the next morning, although the train for Flor- 
ence leaves early, there he was, with such a beautiful bouquet 
for the young lady! And he had brought her eau-de-Cologne, too, for 
the journey, and fruit, and sweets (all this was ostensibly because 
he was grateful to her for having allowed him to make a sketch of 
her for bis friend tbe famous French painter); and when at last the 
train went away out of the station he looked after it sadly enough. 
But he was not inconsolable, as events proved; for within three 
months of this sad parting he had married a rather middle-aged 
contessa, who had estates near Terracina, and a family of four 
daughters by a former husband; and when the Winterbournes next 
saw him he was traveling 6/1 through the Southern English 

counties, along with two Scotch artists, who also — in order that 
nothing should interfere with their impassioned study of Nature — 
had left their wives behind them. 


CHAPTER L. 

VENICE. 

John Shortlands, however, was delayed by some business in 
Paris, and the Winterbournes arrived in Venice first. They went 
to Danieli’s and secured the rooms which were familiar to them in 
former days. But Volande found that the pigeons had forgotten 
all she had ever taught them; and she had to begin again at the be- 
ginning-coaxing them first by sprinkling maize on the balustrade 
of the balcony; then inveigling them down into the balcon}’’ itself; 
then leaving the large windows open, and enticing them into the 
room; and, finally, educating them so that they would peck at any 
half folded packet they found on the stone floor, and get at the grain 
inside. The weather happened to be fine, and father and daughter 


YOLAKDE. 


317 

contentedly set about their water-pilgrimages through the wonderful 
and strange city that never seems to lose its interest and charm for 
even those who know it most familiarly, while it is the one thing 
in the world that is sate never to disappoint the new-comer, if he 
has an imagination superior to that of a hedgehog. There were 
several of Mr, Winterbourne’s Parliamentary friends in Venice at 
this time, and Yelande was very eager to make their acquaintance; 
for now, with the prospect before her of being allowed to go down 
occasionally and listen to the debates, she wished to become as 
familiar as was possible with the personnel of the House. She 
could not honestly say that these legislators impressed her as being 
persons of extraordinary intellectual force, but they were pleasant 
enough companions. Some of them had a vein of facetiousness, 
while all of them showed a deep interest — and even sometimes a 
hot-headed partisanship — when the subject of cookery and the vari- 
ous tables d'hote happened to come forward. 

Then, one night, when they had, as usual after dinner, gone 
round in their gondola to the hotel where Mr. Shortlands 
was expected, they found that that bulky North-countryman 
had arrived, and was now in the saloon, quite by himself, and en- 
gaged in attacking a substantial supper. A solid beefsteak and a 
large bottle of Bass did not seem quite in consonance with a moon- 
light night in Venice; but John Shortlands held to the “ coelurn non 
animum ” theory; and when he could get Dalescroft fare, in Venice 
or anywhere else, he preferred that to any other. He received the 
Winterbouines with great cordiality; and instantly they began a 
discussion of their plans for filling the time before the opening of 
Parliament. 

“But what is the great object you were so mysterious about?” 
Mr. Winterbourne asked. 

“ Ay, there’s something, now,” said he, pouring out another tum- 
blerful of the clear amber fiuid. “ There’s something worth talking 
about. I’ve taken a moor in Scotland for this next season; and 
Yolande and you are to be my guests. Tit for tat’s fair play. I 
got it settled just before I left Lodon.” 

“ Whereabouts is it?” Mr. Winterbourne asked agiiin. 

“ Well, when it’s at home they call it Allt nam-ba. 

“ \ ou don’t mean to say you’ve taken Allt-nam-ba for this year?” 

“ But indeed I have. Tit for tat’s fair play; and, although the 
house won’t be as well managed as it was last year— for we can’t 
expect everything — still, 1 hope we’ll have as pleasant a time of it. 
Ay, my lass,” said he, regarding Yolande, “ you look as if a breath 
of mountain air would do ye some good — better than wandering 
about foreign towns. I’ll be bound.” 

Yolande did not answer; nor did she express any gratitude for so 
kind an invitation ; nor any gladness at the thought of returning to 
that home in the far mountain wilderness. She sat silent -perhaps 
also a trifle paler than usual— while the two men discussed the pros- 
pects of the coming season. 

“ I’ll have to send Edwards and some of them up from Dalescroft; 
though where thev are to get beds for themselves I can’t imagine,” 
John Shortlands 'said. “Won’t my tine gentleman turn up his 
nose if he has to take a room in the bothy! By the way, my neigh- 


YOLANDE, 


318 

bor Walkely — yon remember him. Winterbourne, don’t ye?— has 
one of those portable zinc houses that he bought some two or tliree 
years ago when he leased a salmon river in Sutherlandsliire. I know 
lie hasn’t used it since, and I dare say he’d lend it to me. It could 
easily be put up behind the lodge at Allt nam-ba; and then tliey'd 
have no excuse for grumbling and growling.” 

“ But why should you send up a lot of English servants, who 
don’t know what roughing it in a small shooting-box is like?” said 
Mr. Winterbourne. ‘‘ Why thould you botherl We did very well 
last year, didn’t we? Why shouldn’t you have exactly the same 
people — and here is Yolande, vrho can set the machine going 
again ” 

‘‘There you’ve exactly hit it,” said Shortlands. ‘‘For that is 
precisely what Yolande is not going to do, and not going to be 
allowed to do. It’s all very well for an inlmman father to let his 
daughter slave away at grocer’s accounts. My guest is going to be 
ray guest, and must have a clear full holiday as well as any of us. 
I don’t say that she didn’t do it very well— for 1 never saw a house 
better managed— everything punctual — everything well done — no 
breaking down — just vs' hat you wanted always to your hand; but I 
say that, this year, she must have her holiday like the rest. Per- 
haps she needs it more than any of us,” he added almost to himself. 

It was strange that Yolande made no offer— however formal — of her 
services and did not even thank him for his consideration. No: she 
sat mute, her eyes averted; she let these two discuss the matter be- 
tween themselves. 

'‘I am paying an additional £80,” said Shortlands, “to have the 
sheep kept off, so that we may have a better chance at the doer. 
Fancy all that stretch of land only able to provide £80 of grazing! 
I wonder what some of the fellows on your side of the house. Win 
terbourne, would say to that? Gad, I’ll tell you, now, what I’d like 
to see: I’d like to see the six hundred and sixty members of the 
House of Commons put on to Allt-nam-ba, and compelled to get 
their living off it for five years.” 

“ They wouldn’t try,” said his friend, contemptuously. “ They’d 
only talk. One honorable member would make a speech three col- 
umns long to prove that it was the duly of the right honorable 
gentleman opposite to begin rolling off a few granite b^owlders; and 
the right honorable gentleman opposite would make a speech three 
columns long to show that there was no parliamentary precedent 
for such a motion, and an Irishman would get up to show that any 
labor at all expended on a Scotch moor was an injury done to the 
Irish fisheries, and another reason why the Irish revenues should be 
managed by a committee of his countrymen meeting in Dublin. 
They’d talk the heather bare before they'd grow an ear of corn.” 

“ By the way,” said John Shortlands. who had now finished his 
supper and was ready to go outside and smoke a pipe in the bal- 
cony overlooking the* Grand Canal, “ I wonder if I shall be able to 
curry favor with that excellent person, Mrs. Bell?” 

“But why?” said Y'olande. speaking for the first time since this 
Allt nani-ba project was mentioned. 

** Oh, that she might perhaps give Edwards aud them a few di- 


YOLANDE. 


310 

rections when they go to get the place ready for us. I (U’re say they 
will find it awkward at first.” 

” I am sure Mrs Bell will be very glad to do that,” Yolande said 
at once. ” If you like 1 will write to her when the time comes.” 

” She would do it for your sake, any way,” he said. ” Well, it 
would be odd if we should have just the same party in the evenings 
that we used to have last year. They were very snug, those even- 
ings — I suppose because we knew we were so far out of the world, 
and a small community by ourselves. I hope Jack Melville will 
still be there— my heart warmed to that fellow; he’s got the right 
stuff in him, as we say in the North. And the Master— we must 
give the Master a turn on the hill— I have never seen bis smart shoot- 
ing that you talked so much about, Winterbourne. Wonder if he 
ever takes a walk up to the lodge. Should think it must be pretty 
cx)ld up there just now; and cold enough at Lynn, for the matter of 
that.” 

“ But Mr. Leslie isn’t at Lynn, is he?” said Yolande, suddenly. 

” Where is he, then?” 

” He had started on a yachting cruise when 1 last heard from 
him,” Yolande said. “Why, we had half hoped to find him in 
Venice; and then it would have been strange— the Allt-nam-ba party 
all together again in Venice. But perhaps he is stifl at Naples— he 
spoke of going to Naples.” 

” I don’t know about Naples,” said Shortlands, ” but he was in 
Inverness last week.” 

” In Inverness! No; it is impossible!” 

” Oh, but it is certain. He wrote to me from Inverness about the 
takino- of the shooting.” 

” Not from Lynn?” said Yolande, rather wonderingly. 

“No. He said in his letter that he had happened to call in at 
Macpherson’s office— that is their agent, you know — and had seen 
the correspondence about the shooting; and it was then that he sug- 
gested the advi.'ability of keeping the sheep off Allt-nam-ba.” 

“It is strange,” Yolande said, thoughtfully. “But he was not 
well satisfied with his companion— no — not at all comfortable in the 
yacht — and perhaps he went back suddenly.” And then she added 
— for she was obviously puzzled about this matter — ” Was he staying 
in Inverness?” 

‘‘Indeed, 1 don’t know,” was the answer. 

*‘ Did he write from the Station Hotel?” she asked again, glanc- 
ing at him. 

“No; he wrote from Macpherson’s office, I think. You know 
he used often to go up to Inverness, to look after affairs.” 

“Yes,” said Yolande, absently; she was wondering whether it 
was possible that he still kept up that aimless feud withliis relatives 
—aimless, now that the occasion of it was forever removed. 

And then they went on to the wide balcony, where the people 
were sitting at little tables, snjoking cigarettes and sipping their 
coffee: and all around was a cluster of gondolas that had been 
stopped by their occupants in going by, for in one of the gondolas, 
moored to the front of the balcony, was a party of three iiiiustrels, 


320 


YOLAXDE. 


and the cle^r, penetrating, fine-toned voice of a woman rose above 
the sounds of the violins, and the guitar, with the old familiar 

“ Mare si placido, 

Vento si caro 
Scordar fa i triboli 
A1 marinaro ” 

— and beyond this dense cluster of boats— out on the pale waters of 
the Canal— here and there a gondola glided noiselessly along, the 
golden star of its lamp moving swiftly; and on the other side of the 
Canal the Church of Santa Maria della Salute thrust its heavy 
masses of shadov/ out into the white moonlight. They were well ac 
f^uainted with this scene; and yet the wonder and charm of it never 
seemed to fade. There are certain things that repetition and farail 
iarily do not affect— the strangeness of the dawn, tor example, or the 
appearance of the first pririiiose in the woods; and the sight of 
Venice in moonlight is another of these things— for it is the most 
mysterious and the most beautiful picture that the world can show\ 

By and by the music ceased, there was a little collection of money 
for the performers; and then the golden stars of the gondolas stole 
away in their several directions over the placid waters. Mr. Win- 
terbourne and *Yolande summoned theirs also, for it vvas getting 
late; and presently they were gliding swiftly and silently through 
the still moonlight night. 

“Papa,” said Yolande, gently, “I hope you will go with Mr. 
Shortlands in the autumn, for it is very kind of him to ask you; but 
I would rather not go. Indeed, you must not ask me to go. . But 
it will not matter to you; 1 shall not weary until you come back; 1 
will stay in London, or wherever you like.” 

“ Why don’t you wish to go to Allt-nam ba, Y’'olande?” said he. 

There was no answer. 

“ I thought you were very happy up there,” he said, regarding 

her. 

But, though the moonlight touched her face, her eyes were cast 
down, and he could not make out what she was thinking— perhaps 
even if her lips were tremulous he might have failed to notice. 

“ Yes,” said she, at length, and in a rather low voice, “ perhaps 
I was. But I do not wish to go again. Y^'ou will be kind and not 
ask me to go again, papa?” 

“ My dear child, ” said he, “ 1 know more than you think— a great 
deal more than you think. Now I am going to ask you a question: 
if John Melville were to ask you to be his wife, would you then have 
any objection to going to Allt-nam-ba?” 

She started back, and looked at him for a second, with an alarmed 
expression in her face; but the next moment she had dropped her 
eyes. 

“ You know you cannot expect me to answer such a question as 
that,” she said, not without some touch of wounded pride. 

“But he has asked you, Yolande,” her father said, quietly, 
“ There is a letter for you at the hotel. It is in my writing-case; it, 
has been there for a month or six weeks; it was to be given you when^ 
ever— well, whenever I thought it most expedient to give it to you. 
And 1 don’t see why you shouldn’t have it now— as soon as we go 
back to the hotel. And if you don’t want to go to the Highlands, 


YOLAKDE. 

for fear of meeting Jack Melville, as 1 imagine, here is a proposal 
that may put mailers straight. Will it?” 

Her head was still held down, and she said, in almost an inaudi- 
ble voice: 

” Would you approve, papa?” 

“ Nay, I’m not going to interfere again!” said he, with a laugh. 
“ Choose for yourself. I know more now than 1 did. 1 have had 
some matters explained to me, and 1 have guessed at others; and 1 
have a letter, too, from the Master — a very frank and honest letter, 
and saying all sorts of nice things about you, too, Yolande — yes, 
and about Melville, too, for the matter of that. 1 am glad there will 
be no ill feeling whatever happens. So you must choose for your- 
self, child, without let or hiuderance — whatever you think is most for 
your happiness— what you most wish for yourself — that is what I 
approve of ” 

” But would you not rather that I remained with you, papa?” she 
said, though she had not yet courage to raise her eyes. 

” Oh, I have had enough of you, you baggage!” he said, good- 
naturedly. •• Do you expect me always ^o keep dragging you with 
me about Europe? Haven’t we discussed all that before? Nay, 
but, Yolande,” he added, in another manner, ” follow what your 
own heart tells you to do. That will be your safest guide.” 

They reached the hotel, and when they ascended to their suite of 
rooms he brought her the letter. She read it — carefully and yet 
eagerly, and with a flushed forehead and a beating heart — while he 
lit a cigarette and went to the window, to look over at the moonlit 
walls and massive shadows of San Giorgio. There was a kind of 
joy in her face; but she did not look up. She read the letter again 
— and again, studying the phrases of it; and always with a warmth 
at her heart— of pride and gratitude and a desire to say something to 
some one who was far away. 

” Well?” her father said, coming back from the window, and 
appearing to lake matters very coolly. 

She went to him, and kissed him, and hid her face in his breast. 

‘‘I think, papa,” said she, ”1—1 think 1 will go with you to 
Allt-nam-ba.” 


CHAPTER LI. 

CONCLUSION. 

Now, it is not possible to wind up this history in the approved 
fashion, because the events chronicled in it are of somewhat recent 
occurrence— indeed, at the present writing the Winterbournes and 
John Shortlands are still looking forward to their flight to Allt-nam- 
ba, when Parliament has ceased talking for the year. But at least 
the story may be brought as far as possible ” up to date. And 
first, as regards the Master of Lynn. When, on that evening in 
Venice, Yolande had imagined that he was in Naples, and John 
Shortlands had affirmed that he was in Inverness, he was neither in 
one nor the other. Jle was in a hotel in Princes Street, E^linbu^gh„ 
in a sitting-room on the first floor, lying extended on a sofa, and 
smoking a big cigar, while a cup of coffee that been brought him by 


yolakdp:, 


322 

affectionate hands stood on a small table just beside him. And 
Shena VS,n, having in vain cudgeled her brains for tilting terms of 
explanation and apology, which she wished to send to her brother, 
the Professor, had risen from the writing desk and gone to the win- 
dow; and was now standing there contemplating the wonderful pan- 
orama without — the Scott monument, touched with the moonlight, 
the deep shadows in the valley, the ranges of red windows in the tall 
houses beyond, and the giant bulk of the Castle Hill reaching away 
up into the clear skies. 

“ Shena,” says he, “ what o’clock is it?” 

‘‘A quarter past nine,” she answers, dutifully, with a glance at 
the clock on the chimney-piece. 

” Capital!” he says, with a kind of sardonic laugh. ” Excellent! 
A quarter past nine. Don’t you feel a slight vibrat'on, Shena, as if 
the earth were going to blow up? I wonder you don’t tremble to 
think of the explosion!” 

” Oh yes, there will be plenty of noise,” says Shena Van, content- 
edly. 

” And what a stroke of luck to have the Grahams at Lynn! Bag- 
ging the whole covey with one cartridge? It will soon be twenty 
past. I can see the whole thing. They haven’t left the dining- 
room yet; his lordship must always open the newspapers himself ; 
and the women-folk keep on, to hear whether Queen Anne has come 
alive or not. Twenty past, isn't it? ‘ Hang that fellow, Laramer!’ 
his lordship growls. ‘ He’s always late. Drinking whisky at White- 
bridge, 1 suppose. I’ll send him about his business— that’s what 
it’ll come to.’ Then his lordship has another half glass of port 
wiue; and Polly thinks she’ll run up stairs for a minute to see that 
the blessed baby is all rignt; and we’ll say she’s at the door when 
they hear wheels outside, and so she stands and waits for the letters 
and papers. All right; don’t be in a hurry, Polly; ybu’ll get some- 
thing to talk about presently.'” 

He raised himself and sat up on the sofa, so as to get a glimpse of 
the clock opposite; and Shena Van— whose proper title by this time 
was Janet Leslie — came and stood by him, and put her hand on his 
shoulder. 

‘‘Will they be very angry, Archie?” she says. 

He had his eye fixed on the clock. 

‘‘By Jove,” he says, ‘‘I wish 1 was one of those fellows who 
write for the stage; 1 would tell you what’s happening at this very 
minute, Shena! I can see the whole thing — Polly gets the letters 
and papers, and goes back—' Papa, here is a letter from Archie— 
frohi Edinburgh — what is he doing in Edinburgh?’ And when his 
papa ship opens the letter—' My dear father, — I have the honor to 

inform you ’ ' What!’ he roars, like a stag lost in the mist. 

Why, don’t you hear them, Shena?— they’re all at it now— their 
tongues going like wild-fire— Aunty Tab swearing she knew it would 
come to this— I was never under proper government, and all the 
rest— Polly rather inclined to say it serves them right, but rather 
afraid— Graham suggesting that they’d better make the best of it, 
now it couldn’t be helped ” 

” Oh. do you think he’ll say that, Archie?*” said she, anxiously. 
‘‘ Do yoa think he’ll be on our side?” 


l^OLANDE. 


323 

** My dear girl,” said he, “1 don’t care the fifteenth part of a brass 
farthing which of them, or whether any one of them, is on our side. 
Not a bit. It’s done. Indeed, I hope they’ll howl and squawk to 
their hearts’ content. I would be sorry if they didn’t.” 

“But you know, Archie,” said Shena VSn— who had her own 
little share of w'orldly wisdom — “ if you don’t get recouciled to your 
friends, people will say that you only got married out of spite.” 

“ Well, let them,” said he, cheerfully. “ You and I know better, 
Shena — what matters it what they say? 1 know what Jack Melville 
will say. They won’t get ‘.much comfort out of Mm. ‘No out: 
has got two lives; why shouldn’t he make the most of the one he’s 
got; why shouldn’t he marry the girl he’s fond of?’ — that’s about 
all they’ll get out of him. Polly needn’t try to throw the Corrievreak 
flyover him. Well, now, Shena, when one thinks of it, what strange 
creatures people are! There’s Corrievreak: it’s a substantial thing; 
it’s worth a heap of solid money, and it might be made w'ortli more; 
and there it was, offered to our family, you may say, to keep in our 
possession perhaps for centuries. And what interfered? Why, an 
impalpable thing like politics! Opinions — things you couldn’t touch 
with your ten fingers if you tried a month — a mere prejudice on the 
part of my father— and these solid advantages are thrust away. 
Isn’t it odd?” 

The abstract question had no interest for Shena Van. 

“ 1 hope you do not regret it,” she said, rather proudly. 

“Do 1 speak as if 1 regretted it? No; not much! It was that 
trip to Oarlisle that did it, Shena — that showed me what was the 
right thing to do. And after you left wasn’t I wild that I had not 
more courage! And then Owley became more and more intolerable 
— but I dare say you were the cause of it, you Know, in part — and 
then I said to myself, ‘ Well, I’m off to Aberdeen; and if Shena has 
any kind of recollection of the old days in her heart, why I’ll ask 
her to settle the thing at once.’ ” 

“ Yes, but why wouldn’t you let me tell my brother?” Shena Van 
pleaded. 

“ Telling one would have been telling everybody,” Said he, 
promptly, “ and they would have been at their old games. Now 
3'ou see, it isn’t of the least consequence what they do or say — if 
they tear their hair out it’ll only hurt their own heads. And 1 don’t 
see why you should worry gbout that letter. Why should you make 
apologies? Why should you pretend to be sorry— when you’re not? 
If it bothers you to write the letter, send a copy of this morning's 
Scotsman; that’s quite enough. Send them all this morning’s Scots- 
man; and you needn’t mark it; it will be all the pleasanter surprise 
for them. When they’ve finished with the leading articles, and the 
news, and the criticismjs of the picture exhibitions, and when they’ve 
looked to see how many more ministers of tho Gospel have been 
writing letters and quarreling like Kilkenny cati, then they’ll stray 
on to a nice little paragraph— ‘ What!— /St!. Giles's Church— ArcMbald 
Leslie to Janet Stewart!' — oh, snakes!” 

“ But you wrote to your people, Archie,” Shena Van said, look 
ing wistfully at the sheet of note paper that she had in vain en- 
deavored to till wdth apologies and appeals for pardon. 

“ Well, yes, 1 did,” the Master of Lynn admitted, with a pc* 


324 YOLAKDE. 

culiar smile. “ I could Dot resist the temptation But you mis- 
take altogether, Shena, if you magine that it was to make apology 
that I wrote. Oh no; it was not that; it was only to convey infor- 
mation. It was my filial duty that prompted me to write. Besides, 
I wish the joyful tidings to reach Aunty Tabby as soon as pos- 
sible — oh, don’t you make any mistake, Shena — she’s worth a little 
consideration — she has a little money of her own — oh yes, she may 
do something for us yet!” 

” 1 don’t like to hear you talk of your relations in that way, 
Archie,” said Shena V^n, rather sadly, ” for if you think of them 
like that, how are you ever to be reconciled to them? And you told 
me it would be all right.” 

” And so it will, my dear girl,” said he, good-naturedly. ” And 
this is the only way to put it all right. When they see that the 
thing is done, then they’ll come to their senses. Polly will be the 
first. She always makes the best of matters— she’s a good little 
soul. And his lordship won’t do anything desperate; he won’t be 
such a fool as to drive me to raise money on my expectations; and 
he’ll soon be glad enough to have me back at Lynn — the people 
there want some looking after, as he knows. Besides, he ought to be 
in a good humor just now— both the forest and Allt-nam-ba let 
already, and Ardengreanan as good as taken. 

“But T must write— 1 mustT write,” said Shena, regarding the 
paper again. 

“Well it’s quite simple,” said he. “Tell your brother that, 
when you left Aberdeen, instead of going either to Inverness or to 
Strathaylort you came here to Edinburgh, and were married as per 
inclosed cutting from the Scotsman. The cause? — urgent family 
reasons, which will be explained. Then you ask him to be good 
enough to communicate this news to your sister, and also send a 
message to the Manse; but as for apologizing, or anything of that 
kind, I’d see them hanged first. Besides, it isn’t good policy. It 
isn’t wise to treat your relatives like that, and lead them to think 
they haw a right to remonstrate with you. It’s your business, not 
theirs, lou have quite arrived at years of discretion, my darling 
Shena; and if you don’t want people to be forever jumping on you 
— that is, metaphorically, I mean— stop it at the beginning, and with 
decision. Here,” said he, suddenly getting up and going over to 
the writing-table, “ I’ll write the letter for you!” 

“ Oh, no, Archie!” she cried, interposing. “ You will only make 
them angry.” 

“ My dear child,” said he, pushing her away, “ honey and mo- 
lasses are a fool to what I can write when I want to be civil; and 
at the present moment 1 should like to shake hands with the whole 
human race.” 

Sc he wrote the letter, and wrote it very civilly, too, and to Shena’s 
complete satisfaction; and then he said,' as he finished his coffee, 

“ I don’t think we shall stay long in Paris, Shena. I don’t like 
Paris. You won’t find it half as fine a town to look at as this is 
now.^ And if you go to the theater, it's all spectacle and ballet; or 
else it’s the story of a married woman running away with a lover; 
and that isn’t the kind of thing you ought to see on your wedding- 


TOLANDK 335 

trip, is it? There’s no saying hotv^ far (he force of example might 
go; and you see you began your wedded life by running away.” 

” It was none of my doing, Archie,” said Shena V^n. quickly. 

‘‘ No,” said he. ” 1 tliink we’ll come back to London soon; for 
everybody will be there at the opening of the session, and I want to 
introduce you to some friends of mine. ‘Jack Melville says he is 
going up, and he prelends it’s about his electric lighting perform- 
ance; but 1 suspect it’s more to meet the Winterbournes, when they 
come back from abroad, than to see the directors of the company. 
If they do adopt his system, 1 hope he’ll make them fork out, for he 
is not over burdened with the gear of this wicked world any more 
than myself. Faith, I wish my Right Honorable papa would hand 
along the cost of that special license, for it was all his doing. But 
never mind, Shena; we’ll tide along somehow; and when we come 
back from our trip, if they are still showing their teeth, like a bad- 
ger in a hole, I know what I’ll do — we’ll go over to the West of 
Ireland for the salmon-fishing, and we can live cheaply enough in 
one of the hotels there, either on the Shannon or out in Connemara. 
How would you like that?” 

” Oh, I should be delighted,” said Shena Van, with the dark, 
wonderful blue eyes filled with pleasure. ” For I’m afraid to go 
back to Inverness, and that’s the truth, Archie.” 

'* Oh, but we shall have to go back to Inverness, all in good time,” 
said he, ” and it won’t do to be afraid of anything. And 1 think 
you’ll hold your own, Shena,” he added, approvingly. ” I think 
you’ll hold your own.” 

And so at this point we may bid good-by to these adventurers Ov ho 
seemed pleased enough with such fortune as had befallen them), and 
come along to another couple who, a few weeks later, were walking 
one evening on the terrace of the House of Commons. It was a 
dusky and misty night, though it was mild for that time of year; 
the heavens were overclouded; the lights on Westminster Bridge 
and on the Embankment did little to dispel the pervading gloom, 
though the quivering golden reflecCions on the black river looked 
picturesque enough; and in this dense obscurity such Members and 
their friends as liad come out from the heated atmosphere of the 
House to have a chat or a cigar on the terrace were only indistin- 
guishable figures who could not easily be recognized. They, for the 
most part, were seated on one or other of the benches standing about, 
or idl3Meaning against the parapet; but these two kept walking up 
and down in front of the vast and shadowy building and the gloomy 
windows, and they were arm in arm. 

‘‘A generation hence,” said one of them, looking at the murky 
scene all round them, ” Londoners won’t believe that their city 

could have ever been as black a pit as this is.” 

” But this generation will see the change, will it not?” said his 
companion, whose voice had just a trace of a foreign accent in it. 
‘‘You are going to make the transformation, are you not?” 

“I?” he said, laughing. ” 1 don't know how many are all trying 
at it- and whoev'er succeeds in getting what is really wanted will be a 
wonder-worker, I can tell you. What’s more, he will be a very 
j-icli man. You don’t seem to think about that, Yolafide,” 

” About what, then?” 


326 


YOLANDE. 


“ Why, that you are going to marry a very poor man.” 

“No, 1 do not care at all,” she said, or rather what she did say 
■was, “ 1 do not care aytall ” — despite the tuition of her father.” 

“ That is because you don’t understand what it means,” said be, 
in a kindly way. “ You have had no possibility of knowing. You 
can’t have any knowledge of what it is to have a limited income— to 
have to watch small economies, and the like.” ^ 

“Ah, indeed, then!” said she. “And my papa always angry 
with rue for my economies, and the care and the thrift that the ladies 
at the chateau exercised always! ‘Miser,’ he says to me — ‘miser 
that you are!’ Oh, 1 am not afraid of being poor— not aytall!” 

“ 1 have a chance,” he said absently. “ So far, indeed, I have 
been lucky. And the public are hanging back just now; they- have 
seen so many bad experiments that tliey won’t rush at any one sys- 
tem without examining the others; it’s the best one that will win in 
the end. But it’s only a chance, after all. Yolande,” said he, “ 1 
wonder if I was born to be your evil genius? It was I who sent 
you away from your own home— where you were happy enough; 
and you must have suffered a terrible anxiety all that tiine— 1 can 
see the change in you.” 

“ Oh, but I will not have 3'ou speak like that,” said she, putting 
her other hand on his arm. “ How can you speak like that to me 
when it is night and day that I cannot tell you how grateful I am 
to you? Yes; it was you who sent me; if 1 had not loved you be- 
fore. I should love you for that now — with my whole heart. If you 
had known — if you had seen — wliat joy it was to ni}'’ poor mother 
that I was with her for that time — that we were together — and she 
happy and cheerful for the first time for many, many sad years — if 
jmu had seen the gladness in her face every morning when she saw 
me — then perhaps you would have understood. And if I had not 
gone to h^* — if I had never known her — if she had never had that 
little ha:|)]^ness — would that not have been a sad thing? That she 
might have died among strangers— and 1, her own daughter, amus- 
ing myself with friends and idleness and pleasure somewhere— it is 
too terrible to think of! And 'W'ho prevented that? It is not my 
gratitude only, it is hers also that I give you, that I offer you. You 
made her happy for a time, when she had need of some kindness; 
and you cannot expect that I shall forget it.” 

“ You are too generous,” he said. “ It is a small matter to offer 
advice. I sacrificed nothing; the burden of it fell on you. but I 
will be honest with you. I guessed that you would have anxiety 
and tr:t)uble; but I knew you would be brave enough to face it; and 
I knew, too, that jmu would not afterward regret whatever you 
might have come through, and I know that you don’t regret it now. 
1 know you well enough for that.” 

“ And some day,” she said, “ or perhaps through many and many 
years, I wdll try to show' 5^011 what value I put on your opinion of 
me; and if I do not always deserve that you think well of me, at 
least I shall try to deserve it — can I promise more?” 

At this moment John Shortlauds made his appearance, he had 
come out from the smoking-room with a cigar in his mouth. 

“Look here, Yolande,” he said, “I suppose you don’t want 
tp bear any more of the debate?” 


YOLAKDE. 


327 


** No, no,” she said, quickly. ” It is stupid— stupid. Why do 
they not say what they mean at once — not stumbling here, stumbling 
there, and all the others talking among themselves, and as if every- 
body were going asleep?” 

‘‘It’s lively enough sometimes, I can assure you.” he said. 
” However, your father thinks it’s no use your waiting any longer. 
He’s determined to wait until the division is taken; and no one 
knows now when it will be. He says you’d better go back to your 
hotel — I suppose Mr. Melville will see you so far. Well,” said he, 
addressing Jack Melville, “what do you think of the dinner Winter- 
bourne got for you?” 

‘‘ I wasn’t thinking of it much,” Jack Melville said. “I was 
more interested in the members. I haven’t been near the House of 
Commons since 1 used to come up from Oxford for the boat-race.” 

*‘ How’s the company going?” 

” Pretty well, I think; but of course I’ve nothing to do with that. 
I have no capital to invest.” 

‘‘Except brains; and sometimes that’s as good as bank-notes. 
Well,” said Shortlands, probably remembering an adage about the 
proper number for company, ‘‘I’ll bid ye good night — for I’m going 
back to the mangle — I may take a turn at it myself.” 

So Jack Melville and Yolande together set out to find their way 
through the corridors of the House out into the night-world of Lon- 
don; and when they were in the Palace-yard Yolande said she would 
just as soon walk up to the hotel where her father and herself were 
staying, for it was no further away than Albemarle Street. 

‘‘Did you hear what Mr. Shortlands said?” she asked brightly. 
‘‘ Perhaps, after all, then, there is to be no romance? I am not to 
be like the heroine of a book, who is approved because she marries 
a poor man? 1 am not to make any such noble sacrifice.” 

” Don’t be too sure, Yolande,” said he, good-naturedly. Com- 
panies are kittle cattle to deal with, and an inventor’s business is 
still more uncertain. There is a chance, as I say; but it is only a 
chance. However, if that fails, there will be something else. 1 am 
not afraid.” 

‘‘And I— am 1 afraid?” she said, lightly. ‘‘No! Because I know 
more than you — oh, yes, a great deal more than you. And perhaps 
I should not speak; for it is a secret — no, no, it is not a secret, for 
you have guessed it — do you not know that you have Monaglen?” 

He glanced at her to see whether she was merely making fun ; but 
he saw in her eyes that she was making an actual — if amused — in- 
quiry. 


‘‘ Well, Yolande,” said he, ‘‘ of course I know of Mrs. Bell’s fan- 
tasy; but I don’t choose to build my calculations for the future on 
a fantasy.” 

“But,” said Y^olande, rather shyly, “if you were told it was 
done? If Monaglen were already yours? If the lawyers had done — 
oh, everything — all settled — what then?” 

‘‘ What then? 1 would refuse to take it. But it is absurd. Mrs. 
Bell cannot be such a madwoman. 1 know she is a very kind 
woman: and there is in her nature a sort of romantic attachment to 
m^ father’s family— which 1 rather imagine 8he has cultivated by 


328 TOLANDE. 

the reading of those old songs. Still, she cannot have done any- 
thing so wild as that.” 

” She has bought Mouaglen,” Yolande said, without looking up. 

‘‘ Very well. I thought she would do that — if she heard it was 
in the market. Very well, why shouldn’t she go there — and send 
for her relatives, if she has any — and be a grand lady there. I have 
met more than one grand lady, who hadn't half her natural grace 
of manner, nor half her kindliness of heart.” 

” It is very sad then,” said Yolande (who was afraid to drive him 
into a more decided and definitive opposition). ” Here is"»a poor 
woman who has but one noble ideal — the dieam of her life — it has 
been her hope and her pleasure for many and many a year; and 
when it comes near to completion — no— there is an obstacle — and the 
last obstacle that one could have imagined! Ah, the ingratitude of 
it! It has been her romance; it has been the cliarin of her life. 
She has no husband, no children. She has, I think, not any relation 
left. And because you are proud, you do not care that you disap- 
point her of the one hope of her life — that you break her heart?” 

” Ah, Yolande,” said he with a smile, ‘‘ Mrs. Bell has got hold of 
you with her old Scotch songs— she has been walking you through 
fairy-land, and your reason has got perverted. What do you think 
people would say if- I were to take away this poor woman’s money 
from her relatives — or from her friends and acquaintances, if she has 
no relatives? It is too absurd. If I were the promoter of a swin- 
dling company, now, I could sharp it out of her that way; that would 
be all right, and I should remain an honored member of societ)’^; but 
this won’t do — this won't do at all. You may be as dishonest as you 
like, and so long as you don’t give the law* a grip on you, and so 
long as you keep rich enough, you can have plenty of public respect; 
but you can’t afford to b^jcome ridiculous. No, no, Yolande; if 
Mrs. Bell has bought Monaglen, let her keep it. I hope she will in- 
stall herself there, and play Lady Bountiful — she can do that naturally 
enough; and when she has had her will of it, then, if she likes to 
leave it to me at her death, I shall be her obliged and humble serv- 
ant. But in the meantime, my dearest Y'olande, as you and I have 
got to face the world together, 1 think we’d better have as little 
fantasy around us as possible — except the fantasy of affection, and 
the more of that we have the better.” 

When they got to the hotel they paused outside the glass door to 
say good-by. 

” Good night, dearest Y'olapde.” 

” Good night, dear Jack.” 

And then she looked up at this broad-shouldered, pale, dark mau, 
and there was a curious smile in her beautiful, sweet; and serious 
face. 

‘‘Is it true,” she asked, ” that a woman always has her own 
Vvay ?” 

‘‘ Th^ say so, at all events,” was ihe answe^'. 

” And if two women have the same wish and the same hope and 
only one man to say no, then it is still more likely he will be de- 
feated ?” 

‘‘I shouldn’t say he had much chance myself,” Jack Melville 
^aid, ” But what’s your conundrum, now, sweetheart?” 


YOLANbE. 


820 


** Then I foresee something,” she said. ” Yes, I sec that we shall 
have to ask Mr. Leslie to be very kind, and to lend us Duncan Mac- 
donald for an evening. Oh, not so very far away — not so far away 
as you imagine; because, you know, when we have all gone up to 
Mouaglen House, and we are all inside, going over the rooms — and 
looking here and there with a great curiosity and interest— or per- 
haps we are all seated in the dining-room, having a little chat 
together— then what will you say if all at once you heard the pipes 
outside, and what do you think Duncan will play, on such an even- 
ing as that, if not Melville' s Welcome Home?" 


THE END. 



t . 

I 






The 


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OKf>lNAllV EI>IXION. 


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30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 TTie Wooing O’t 20 

46 ^he Heritage of Langdale 20. 

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400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

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1391 iiook Before You Leap • 20 

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13 A Princess of Thule. . 20 

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47 In Silk Attire .y. . 10 

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604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

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390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green PastJires and Piccadilly ... ...’. r'. . . . j ... 10 

816 White AVings: A Yachting Romance ! . . .L 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Anrelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

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1556 Shandoii Ikuls.... 20 

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SDane Eyre (in small type) 10 

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109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham. 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

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190 Henry Dunbar 20 

315 Birds of Prey 30 

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251 Lady Audley’s Secret. 7 30 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange .. 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

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469 Rupert Godwin.., 20 

481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

535 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World : 20 

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641 Only a Clod 20 

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701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 20 

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THE SEASIDE LlBRAttT.-^Ch'dtna/ry Editum, tit 


MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORKS —Continued. 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

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■^2 Asphodel 20 

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269 Red as a Rose is She 20 

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402 “NotWi^ly, But Too Well” 20 

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526 Joan 20 

"-462 Second Thoughts ‘ 20 

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38 Antonina 20 

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480 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

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433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 

551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch > • 4 20 

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696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep '..... 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

J544. Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 


rv 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordincury Edition, 


J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20— 

226 The Pathfinder 20—-^ 

229 The Pioneers 20 ' 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20—-^ 

590 The Two Admirals 20-“~- 

615 The Red Rover 20- 

761 Wing and- Wing. w 20 

940 TlTe^y 20^ 

1066 Tlie Wyandotte.. 20- — 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 > 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or. The Abhaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

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239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dipkensand Wilkie Collins) 10 — 

247 Martin CHruOTtewit.^ .-f. ..;... 20-'-’-- 

272 The Crickl^r'Oti tlierHearth . . . 10 ' 

284 OliveiClBK^t • 20 — 

289 A Christmitfl-Carol. . 10 

297 The H?mnled-Man ...... 10 

804 Little-Dorrit . . . Av. ■ .v.^. ..... .-. 

308 The Olqnfies .f .* 10 ' 

317 The Batthjvof Life.,. . . i . , . . . 10 

325 Our-Mulua! Friend /.C. . . ^ . 20 

337 Bleak'House. . . .V. .V. i . . . . v,.'. . . ^ 20''-^ 

852 Pickwitfli.Papers^A'i..V.V.v. . vU . .. 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage. . . : i 1 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler. 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock f ,. , ^0 

625 SketclieSrby.Boz . . . ’. .-. X . . . . . . . .• . .... .... ^ . . 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

§27 The Mud fog Papers, &c — 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— (h'dlnary Edition. 


V 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS.-Continued. 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

'—-^00 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

1682 The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens, with a few Miscel- 
lanies in Prose, now First Collected. Edited, Prefaced, 
and AnnoUted by Richard Herne Shepherd. First half. 20 
1682 The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens, with a few Mis- 
cellanies in Prose, now First Collected. Edited, Pref- 
aced, and Annotated by Richard Herne Shepherd. Sec- 
ond half. . . 20 

WORKS BY THE AIITH.0R OF “ DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover.. 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead He<‘irt 10 

— 718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or. True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

' — 746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

'^“^846 Dora Thorne 20 

,.-—921 At War with Herself 10 

931 The Sin of a Lifetime .V. 20 

1013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream .r'. 10 

- - 1018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love . . . ,7 10 

1060 A Woman’s War T. . . . ;. • 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women .' ^ 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded «M»d-Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love \ . . 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring :.'«i 10 

. 1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

\ 1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

" 1179 From Gloom to Sunlight ! 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golde4i-Hcart 20 

1266 Ingledcw House # 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or. Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romauce of a Black Yeil, 20 


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